


Sing With Me

by valammar



Series: Sing With Me [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Character Development, Chubby Inquisitor, Cole is a Cat, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Modern Thedas, Mutual Pining, Pining, Plus Size Inquisitor, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Smut, Therapy, Weight Issues, plus sized inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:13:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 49,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4951369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valammar/pseuds/valammar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neb Trevelyan is a former social worker from Ostwick who now works as a music therapist. Cullen Rutherford is a former police lieutenant with a traumatic past who now works in staff management for famed business tycoon Varric Tethras. Their lives soon intertwine after a common acquaintance tries to set them up on a blind date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blind Date

Neb only wished she’d been given more warning that she was being setup on a blind date. Instead, she had to pick out something presentable to wear in under 24 hours. It was a Friday evening in late autumn and she was just finishing a session with Bartrand when his brother informed her of this fact.

 _“Look, Kiddo, I appreciate all the work you’re doing with my brother and all. You’re a real peach. Listen, I’ve got this friend. Well, he’s more of a subordinate, really. I think he and you would hit it off, and after I_ politely _asked him, he agreed to meet with you tomorrow morning.”_

_“Oh, thank you, Mr. Tethras, but-“_

_“Call me Varric, Kiddo.”_

_“All right, Mr. Teth—Varric. What I meant to say is: I appreciate it, but I don’t think I’m really-“_

_“Come on, Neb! You’d really get a kick out of this guy!”_

_Neb sighed. Arguing with a professional negotiator wasn’t a winning game. “Well, what’s he like?”_

_“Oh, you know. He’s…human, and you’re…human…”_

_“Varric…”_

_“Okay, okay, look. Just call it a hunch, all right? If I promise you the guy’s not some malicious serial killer, will you just go out with him one time? If it turns out I’m wrong, I’ll let you smash Bianca’s left tail light.”_

_His priceless car? “You’d let me smash Bianca? That’s how serious you are?”_

_“Void, no! Who said anything about hurting my baby? Look. The guy needs to get out more. Spends too much time staring at his desk with this grim look on his face. And you? You’re nice, you’re beautiful – not as beautiful as Bianca..." She smiled at his joke. "...But close. So what do you say? Just one date? As a favor to me, your old pal? Your_ patron _?”_

 _That was his gambit: Varric knew how difficult it was for her to turn down a favor for a friend, and he_  was _a dedicated supporter of her employer_. _He had her. “Yes. Okay. Yes, I’ll do it – as a_ favor _.”_ But I’m probably not going to enjoy it,  _she thought._

* * *

It took Josephine almost an hour to get from the courthouse to Neb’s apartment after being informed of an “emergency.” Neb welcomed her in while holding her usual mug of hot chocolate, wearing an oversized sweatshirt from graduate school and a pair of flannel pajama pants. Josephine was stricken with the familiar sensation of being quite overdressed, but she knew it was one of the qualities Neb revered about her. The Antivan’s fashion sense was impeccable.

“Why not wear the grey sweater with that silk scarf I got you?”

Neb groaned, trying to pull the fabric down to cover her large breasts and pudgy midriff. It had clearly shrunk. “Sweater is a no-go.”

“Well, where are you two meeting?”

“The Halla Coffee downtown.”

“You  _hate_  coffee…”

“I know, I know, but I didn’t get to pick the venue,” she said. “I’ll just order my hot chocolate and if I’m lucky he’ll find my taste ‘whimsical’.” She continued scanning her closet, sorting through worn denim and cotton, long-sleeved tees.

“How about your gala dress?” Josephine asked and Neb couldn’t help but scoff as she pulled it from the dregs of her clothes rack. It was black, hit just above her knee and hugged every curve.

“I can’t wear this for a date at ten in the morning, Josie!”

“Why not? With some stockings, a little lipstick and your coat, you’d be a vision of sophistication.”

Neb envisioned herself sauntering into the coffee shop: her chestnut locks – which were somehow inches longer – billowing in the crisp fall breeze as she removed her wide brimmed sunglasses. The scene was suddenly in black and white, the careful  _click clack_ of her drake leather shoes offset by smooth Orlesian jazz. This visage wasn’t the shy music therapist whose wardrobe consisted mainly of clothes that were comfortable enough for loading and unloading a bass from her car and then spending hours sitting cross-legged on the floor. This was a woman with poise. What would her mystery date think when he saw  _her_?

 _But it’s not me_ , she decided.

“No,” she shook her head. “Maybe if it actually goes well and he asks me to dinner, but I think I’ll just go with something casual. Here…” Reaching into the pile of clothes on her bed, she pulled out a light brown cowl neck sweater and some burgundy red skinny pants.

“Ooh,” Josephine exclaimed. “Very autumnal. Now if we just belt you at the waist-“

“Josie? No belts.”

“Not even for a date?”

“ _Especially_  not for a date. I don’t need any more attention drawn to  _these_ ,” she pointed with one hand toward her breasts and the other toward her thighs. “I’m already prepping myself to hear ‘Oh! I actually  _like_ my women to have a little meat on them,’ and, ‘Honestly, you’re not that fat. I’ve been with even bigger girls,’ or, my favorite, ‘Well, I really like your  _personality_ , but…’”

“They—men don’t  _really_  say things like that, do they?”

“Want to bet?” Neb had only been on a handful of dates over the last decade, each one of them ending in embarrassment and nothing but a pint of ice cream to keep her company for the night – and later, Cole.

Josephine looked solemn, and then hugged her as a show of support. Neb inhaled the fragrant scent of violets in her raven hair. “We’ll just have to trust in Mr. Tethras, I suppose. I do not perceive him as a man who would lead you astray. So, this man. What do you know about him?”

“He said his name was Cullen. His hair is blond and curly.”

“…And?”

“That’s all he told me.”

“Have you tried looking him up online? On Fadebook or RiftedIn?”

Neb shook her head. “From what I can tell, he doesn’t have  _any_  social media presence. I think I’d have better luck finding information on an ascetic Chantry sister than this guy. I don’t even know how  _old_  he is…”

Josephine hugged her again. It was getting late and she needed to catch a train. “Please, Neb. Do not hesitate to call me tomorrow when you’re finished, all right?”

“I promise,” she said, escorting her friend to the door. “It’s getting cold out. I hope you’ll be warm enough. Do you want to borrow one of my sweatshirts?”

“No, that’s quite all right. I just wish I could find my other glove. If only-”

“Mrow.”

The women both turned their heads toward the couch where Neb’s cat was pawing something out from underneath. It was quickly revealed to be a black leather glove.

“My glove!” Josephine recognized it immediately, walking over to pick it up. “And I was  _just_  talking about it!”

“Awww, Cole found it for you,” Neb cooed. “Good kitty! It must have fallen between the cushions the last time you came to visit.” She scooped up her small friend and cradled him in her arms like a fuzzy white infant. She felt her nerves about tomorrow morning immediately dissipate against his warmth. “If only I could bring  _you_  along with me,” she spoke in a singsong voice. “Just stick you in my purse and feed you whipped cream from my cup. That’d give me all the courage I need, yes it would!”

“Neb, you cannot spend the rest of your days alone with your cat.”

“And why not?”

“Because I am your certified best friend and I know you. There is so much love in your heart, and you would do best to share it. Try to enjoy yourself tomorrow. And remember: call me. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Neb bolted the door after Josephine left, carrying Cole with her into the bedroom and plopping the both of them down onto the strewn apparel. She stroked along his back, listening to his deep purr.

“Tomorrow probably won’t go anywhere, anyway,” she said to him. “And then it’ll still just be you and me. Would you like that?”

“Mew.”

“Yeah, just you and me. That’s all I need.”

Once she put her closet back in order and made sure all the lights were off, Neb snuggled under her quilt, kicking her feet across the lower half of the bed to warm it up. She looked to the empty pillow next to her which suddenly made the bed feel even colder. She couldn't remember the last time she'd fallen asleep in the arms of a lover or how long it had been since she'd felt someone's touch apart from her own. Trying to shake the sudden sense of loneliness from her mind, she began to hum a few bars to an old folk song that she liked to play on the harp. Music was always a way she sought comfort, and she loved that her career gave her the opportunity to share that comfort with others. While the notes danced across her eyelids, she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Cole had perched himself on her dresser, his pale blue eyes watching her with great interest.


	2. Training and Development

Skyhold Tower lived up to its name. The prominent superstructure stood out like a steel beacon against the city skyline. In all his years, Cullen never would have guessed he'd grace its notorious marble floors, let alone find himself under the employ of the man who built it. Yet here he was, back in Ferelden under the safety of flickering fluorescent lights with a plaque on his office door that read: _C. Rutherford, Dept. Head of Training and Development_. It was a far different life from the one he knew in Kirkwall.

He'd felt his phone vibrate in the desk drawer. _Probably my sister_ , he griped. _I'll answer it later_. This morning, he'd reordered the night staff's rotations and filled out appropriate employee orientation paperwork. The front desk informed him that the requested conference room had been booked for said new employee orientation. Day-in, day-out, this was all part of his routine: wake up alone, run off a terrible night's sleep, shower, arrive at his desk an hour early, stay two hours late.  Repeat. His door was left open and he could see an intern struggling with a paper jam in the nearby printer. Her fist pounded the machine with a mighty _slam_ that reminded him of…  

* * *

_"I've read your case files, and I'm convinced that the raid must happen tonight," Chief Stannard moved to stand behind the podium with stick straight posture, her blond hair was tightly wound into bun. The permanent scowl she wore made her look even more severe. "The lieutenant will lead the assault with officers Samson, Barris and Keran. Carroll, Emeric and Hadley are to patrol the perimeter in case any suspects flee the scene. The rest of you will provide backup support. Any questions?"_

_"None, ma'am," Cullen confidently responded. On top of overseeing every officer on duty, he had spent the last three months leading an investigation into a gang drug war between the Blood Mages and the Templars. If his mole Jowan was correct, the Blood Mages will be running a shipment out of an abandoned fish processing plant down at the docks this very evening. His squad was prepared. This was their one chance._

_"Very well. We move at 23:00 hours. Dismissed."_

_The docks were silent except for the continuous wash of inky black waves, and that eerie silence filtered into the plant. Cullen and his squad were treading carefully, listening for even the faintest activity further in when he caught the echo of footsteps running across the rafters above._

_"Samson. Barris," he whispered. "Flank left. Keran, you guard my six. I'll take point." As they moved into position, Cullen suddenly felt a pang in his gut, like something was horribly amiss. They had the right time and address, he was certain of that. There_ should _be more activity by now._

 _His premonition came true much too quickly as a vial dropped from the ceiling and landed in front of him with an overpowering_ crash _. He had barely enough time to maneuver away before the broken glass erupted into crimson flames._

_"Fire flasks! They knew we were coming!"_

_"Some bastard must have tipped them off!" Samson shouted, aiming his gun at the swift figure above._

_"Move! Move! Move!" They charged further in, their boots echoing through the empty space as another vial shattered and exploded behind him. He turned his head to see Keran miraculously dodge it._ Thank the Maker. _Cullen reached for the comm on his vest. "Backup team, do you copy? The suspects have been tipped off. They have fire flasks. Requesting additional support. Over."_

_No response. Nothing in his ears but the crackle of flames and the sound of gunfire._

* * *

He blinked out of his daydream from a  _clap_. He'd been gazing at the floor and was now looking at a familiar pair of impeccably polished dragon hide brogues. 

"I pay you too much to sit around and stare at my shoes all day, Curly. I make the interns do that."

Cullen was sure his ears were beet red by now. "My apologies, sir! It was…a momentary diversion, I assure you."

"Nah, don't worry about it. I know you do your job. In fact, my night staff tells me you've been doing your job a little _too_ much."

"You--the night staff is keeping tabs on me?"

"Only because I occasionally meet them for a round of Wicked Grace and take a few peeks at the security cameras. Oh, Curly, you should see the look on your face!"

"With all due respect, sir, but how much scrutiny has my schedule been under?"

The dwarf sat down in the char across from him, slicking a hand through his strawberry blond hair. "Look, Curly. I'm a Kirkwall man myself. I know where you came from and I know a lot of shit went down. But you can't keep hiding from it in here. Between all your comin' in early, stayin' late and sneakin' in on weekends, I'm gonna get slapped with a lawsuit when you drop dead behind your desk. I can't afford all those litigation fees and Bianca only drinks premium gasoline. So this is your warning to start taking it easy."

"But the work-"

"Will still be there when you get back."

Cullen sighed. "All right. I was just…"

"You were just what?"

The words came out before he could stop himself, like they'd been held in too long. "I just don't want to be stuck at home with only my thoughts. I need a diversion."

Varric grinned. "Ah, so what you _need_ is a little distraction. Possibly in the form of a woman? A man?"

"I…The first one, I suppose. But sir, I really don't think I'm-"

"Don't argue with me, Curly. Now let me think. Who do I know…? Got it! I have just the girl. Name's Neb. A real knockout. I'm seeing her tonight when I pick up my brother Bartrand and I'll sure she's free tomorrow. You like coffee, right?"

"Not…particularly. Sir, I would prefer to-"

"Perfect! You'll meet her at my favorite place downtown. I know the owner. I'll tell them to keep a table open for you. New part of your job description, Curly: go have some fun. Live a little. And don't even think about trying to sneak into your office tomorrow. I'm lockin' the door."

"Wait! Sir? How will I know to spot her?"

That grin again. "Once you do, Curly, you won't be able to look at anything else. Now get outta here. I want the full report on Monday. 'Night!" Varric waved his hand as he turned out of the office. Cullen rubbed his hands over his eyes. _Maker_ , _there's no way out of this_.

Returning home, he flicked the light switch on, revealing his apartment: polished hardwood parquet floors, a streamlined black couch and an entire wall of stainless steel shelving filled to the brim with books, primarily on religion and philosophy. As he took off his coat he felt his phone vibrate again, remembering that he forgot to check it earlier.

_4 new text messages._

_Mia, 12:13pm  
fam hasn't heard from u in a while. u ok? _

_Mia, 1:41pm  
hey, haven’t heard back yet. plz let me know ur ok._

_Mia, 2:59pm  
im sure ur busy w/ work but u know i worry. we're thinking of u. r u taking ur meds?_

_Mia, 6:23pm  
cullen???? plz answer me when u get this._

He couldn't avoid his intense guilt. It was his own fault he made them worry by forgetting to respond to their inquiries. Before he found himself distracted again, he typed a brief message.

_You, 6:27pm  
Hi, I'm all right. Was in meetings all afternoon. All my love._

_Mia, 6:28pm  
thank the maker! don’t scare me like that again. how is haven? have u met anyone?_

_You, 6:29pm  
Not of my own accord, though you may be tickled to hear I have a blind date tomorrow morning. _

_Mia, 6:30pm  
what?!?!?!? tell me more!_

_You, 6:31pm  
I will tell you more when I know more. Stop prying._

Mia's text reminded him that he needed to take his meds. He knew not to take them on an empty stomach, but cooking for himself was often more effort than he was willing to put forth. Cullen swallowed them dry before hanging up his suit and settling into bed, relishing the cool sheets against his heated back and tried his best not to fret over tomorrow morning.

 _I'm gonna have to pick out something to wear_.


	3. Halla Bad

Neb opened her eyes to the sound of Cole chirping in her ear, trying to rouse her for his morning meal. When he was fed, she took her time bathing, dressing and perfecting her hair and makeup. Even if she wasn’t confident this impromptu rendezvous would go anywhere past an awkward chat or a no-show, she was never one to say she didn’t do _her_ part to put forth some effort.

She passed the small portrait of Andraste that hung in her bedroom and said a small prayer. _Please let this go well for me, and if not please give me the courage to walk away with my head held high._

When she finished zipping up her boots and belting her trench coat, she paused to pet the cat a few more times while he stretched across the sofa. Just the feeling of having him near made her anxiety evaporate. “You give me some strength too, okay? And be good while I’m out.”

“Mew.”

She took one last look at her furry companion for an extra dose of comfort before leaving her apartment and heading toward the bus stop.

She stepped off the bus at 9:32, giving her plenty of time to walk four blocks. As she turned the corner, she saw a peddler slouched against a graffiti splattered wall. Sunken eyes and hollow cheeks hinted at his emaciated frame underneath two baggy coats. Hiding behind his thin mouth was a lifetime of untold tales. Her heart ached when he looked at her.

“Spare some coin, ma’am?” he pleaded.

“Of course,” Neb said, dropping two sovereigns into his cup.

“Maker watch over you,” he thanked her.

She knew she could never truly leave her life as a social worker behind. How many homeless refugee families had she watched be torn apart? How much prejudice denied them the opportunities to thrive in Ostwick, leaving no other choice but to pillage or panhandle?

 _No, no negative thoughts today._ She told herself not to look back at the man. _Eyes forward. Smile. That’s it._ She hummed to herself as she strolled.

Finally, she saw the recognizable green sign with a white silhouette of a halla. Neb never quite understood their slogan: “Halla good coffee.” _What does that even mean?_

Her heart started to pound and she felt her cheeks blush. She’d curled her hair so it was a bouncing tumble of silken waves. She took out her compact to check her eye makeup, perfect her tresses and straighten her tan trench coat. _Should I go in?_ She checked the time on her phone: 9:54. She decided she’d wait until the exact time with the hope of impressing him with her punctuality, but that wouldn’t stop her from trying to sneak a peek at him through the window.

Neb looked at the people waiting for their drinks by the counter: some too old, others too young and none of them blond. She scanned her eyes over crowded seating areas decorated with lush potted plants to solid ironbark tables. It wasn’t until a group stood up to leave that she spotted him tucked away in a rather intimate corner of the café: the loner. He looked about her age. Perfectly coiffed wavy, golden locks. A bit pale. Freshly shaved. He was wearing a light orange plaid button-up and invested himself in what appeared to be quite a substantial textbook. A large white mug sat on the table in front of him and an olive jacket draped over the back of his chair. On top of being literate and well dressed, Neb could tell even from this distance that he was tall - and very trim. _Oh, Varric, what are you getting me into?_

Reaching her phone out of her pocket, she snapped a quick photo of him from outside and sent it to Josie.

 _You, 9:58am_  
[Image Attached]  
i think that’s him.

In mere seconds, her friend responded with only an emoji: a yellow smiling face with pink hearts for eyes.

When her clock finally read 10:00, she made her entrance. The ambience was warm and welcoming if not a bit overcrowded. Elven wait staff slipped between patrons, expertly carrying drink trays horizontally, never spilling a drop. The air was practically dripping with fatty butter wafting from the pastry case. She overheard groups talk of work, pop culture, family or whatever came to mind. Playful music rose above it all, creating a miasma of noise that made her nerves even more overpowering. After requesting a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream, she moved to the register where she caught a glimpse of him in her peripheral:

He was staring directly at her.

Taking a deep breath, she paid for and accepted her drink, doing her best to appear coy as she snuck another glance. He’d put his book down, still fixated on her profile. She walked toward him with as much grace as she could muster while carrying an overflowing mug of piping hot liquid. The cacophony of song, babble and clanking dishes suddenly became distant when she reached his table.

“You must be Cullen,” she finally spoke to him, her heart racing. “Varric only told me to look for a man with blond, curly hair, and you seem to be the only one here.” She hoped she didn’t look to anxious when she smiled. She found a bit of comfort when he began fumbling his words, appearing almost as nervous as she felt.

“Neb, I presume? It’s—wow, you’re—lovely—I mean, _it’s_ …lovely. It’s lovely to meet you.” He smiled back and – was he blushing? “I know coffee is typically an obligation for this sort of arrangement, but I hope you don’t mind I chose herbal tea instead. I’m not too fond of caffeine, myself.”

“Me neither!” she exclaimed. “I got a hot chocolate. Caffeine just makes me so…”

“…Jittery?”

“…Jittery!” She gave the space another scan, thinking of another ice breaker. “This place was easy enough to find, though I don’t think I understand the slogan on the sign.”

“I agree. ‘Halla good coffee’? _What does that even mean_?”

 _So far, so good!_ He was only more attractive up close: a warm smile highlighted by a strong jaw and caramel eyes. And _Maker_ , his voice. It was soft and enticing, like a feather trailing down her spine. His upper lip showcased a pale, gnarly scar that did little to diminish his good looks – perhaps it even enhanced them. It was impossible to not feel intimidated; Neb was convinced even a peacock would feel self-conscious in his presence.

She peered at the textbook next to him on the table, trying to keep the small talk going to quell her rising nerves. “What book were you reading?”

“Oh, it’s rather dry, I suppose. _The Pursuit of Knowledge: Tra-_ “

“ _Travels of a Chantry Scholar_ by Ferdinand Genitivi! I own a copy.”

“You read Genitivi?” He wasn’t patronizing her – from what she could tell, he was genuinely interested.

She nodded. “To be fair, I read anything and everything.”

“That’s…really admirable, actually. I wish I had more time to read anything and everything.”

She’d expected him to say something about her physique by now, yet in a refreshing turn his gaze barely wandered from hers. Neb couldn’t say the same, her eyes frequently wandering to the scar at his mouth. She wanted to inquire about it, but it was much too soon to ask something so personal, so she decided to stick to small talk. “So, you work for Varric?”

“Yes, in Human Resources. Head of Training and Development, as of recently.” He coughed. There was something about him that Neb found endearing - the way he stuttered and rubbed the back of his neck. There was a great earnestness in his shyness. "How um…how do you know Varric?"

"I'm his brother's music therapist," she replied, taking out one of her business cards and handing it to him to keep. "If you happen to know anyone, I'm currently accepting new clients."

He graciously took the card and placed it in his wallet. “Have you been doing it long?” he asked.

"Only for a couple of years. I was born in Ostwick, earned degrees in counseling and social work before joining Social Services and working in immigration and refugee resettlement. Much of my career was spent assimilating Fereldan refugees." She was referring to the Orlesian attempt to annex Ferelden under Minister de Chalons. The invasion brought a series of precision bombings across southern Ferelden that news media affectionately nicknamed "The Blights." As towns were decimated, southerners fled north across the perilous Waking Sea to the Free Marches. While the bordering countries had since declared a truce, Ferelden was still rebuilding.

He smiled engagingly. “And how did you go from becoming a social worker to a music therapist?

That was a complicated question for her to answer. For her, feeling fulfillment comes from seeing growth, hope and a new direction. Unfortunately, years of nothing but tragedy and misery had swelled into an impenetrable bubble that left her suffocating. Clients left her care only to be met with more red tape, more prejudice, losses of safety and security leading to backpedaling. Eventually, she’d read an obituary about a suicide or drug overdose, recognizing the name of the deceased. Days became a haze of grief, a sense of failure and utter isolation. “To put it plainly: I burned out.”

When her friend and work acquaintance Josephine, a defense attorney, announced she’d accepted a new position in Haven, Neb was inspired to make her own change and enrolled in school to pursue her passion: music. She accepted a graduate program in Ferelden and moved with her Antivan colleague to start a new life. She fondly remembered the two years she’d slept on Josephine’s couch while earning her Master’s degree in music therapy. The two women have been nearly inseparable since.

Conversation carried on like so. As her nerves calmed down, she found her date easy to talk to. _That's a good sign_. They made more small talk: where they were from, where they went to school, about their families. His parents have passed; hers are retired to a condominium. He grew up in the country; she didn’t. He was the second youngest of four children; she was the youngest of seven.

" _Seven_? Maker, I thought three siblings were loud enough. I'd have to flee to the nearby lake just to find some peace and quiet.”

“There weren’t many places to find peace and quiet in the middle of a big city! I sought serenity in the local Chantry. It was soothing, and there was always music.”

Then she learned he'd studied theology at Kinloch University before enrolling in police officer training where he rose through the ranks, was made Lieutenant and then transferred to Kirkwall's Lowtown district.

"How did you go from becoming a police officer to working a corporate desk job?"

Cullen’s jaw tensed as he shifted in his seat, taking a few moments to respond. “It was…ah, to put it plainly, I burned out.”

She smiled at the mirror of her earlier comment, despite his apparent discomfort. Ever the sympathizer, she wanted to extend some kind words to. “I can only imagine what you must have dealt with. Being a police officer must have been very…trying.”

He looked thoughtful. “It was, but to be honest, I enjoyed the challenge. Though some days _were_ arduous. Kirkwall was a hive of violent gang activity. My fellow officers would joke about how they seemed to fall from the sky! The raids were endless. Each victory only fueled the birth of a new crime syndicate.” His shoulder slumped. “I saw more than my fair share of corruption. And, of course, our rampant refugee population at the time did little to quell the onslaught of perpetrators, as I’m sure you’re aware - given your former line of work.”

 _Wait, what?_ “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean…?”

“Well, when the Blights began, the Free Marches’ borders were overwhelmed. It’s impossible to know how many criminals penetrated the city, avoiding detection. Our precinct saw a dramatic increase in petty crime during those first years. At the request of my former chief, Kirkwall eventually issued a decree that all civilian applicants were to be detained for questioning to ascertain potential risks.”

 _That’s barbaric!_ Was he honestly suggesting that those who braved the journey to the Free Marches did so only to perpetuate petty crime? Did he really dismiss the anguish families faced when they arrived at Kirkwall’s gates, hoping for protection only to be met with disdain? Was he not Fereldan himself? “Surely, you wouldn’t agree to that, right? These were people fearing for their lives!”

“I understand our methods may seem harsh, but we did what others could not to protect people!”

“’Protect’?! The only _thing_ they protect is a system designed to uphold the wealthy elite and exploit the unfortunate and underprivileged!”

He pursed his lips and looked at his lap, speaking quietly. “You don’t know what I’ve seen…”

“And you don’t know what _I’ve_ seen! I _know_ about Kirkwall. The way they packed their refugees into overcrowded slums. Children. Families. Left to starve by a city that forgot about them – where do you think they could go? They came to your city with desolation at their backs only to be spat right in the face as a promise of asylum! Tell me who is more vulnerable: the established well-to-do or the newly downtrodden? The _latter_ is who you should have been protecting! Don’t you _dare_ speak to me about criminalization if you won’t show some compassion for those who are forced into becoming criminals!”

He didn’t respond. He only sat there, dumbstruck. By this point, Neb felt her cheeks grow hot. It was a combination of embarrassment and frustration; less by his comment, and more by the fact that she was one who preached justice and fairness only to use his former employment as a platform for social activism all after _just_ meetinghim! He may have ignorantly spoken, that was his responsibility, but she should have managed how she reacted better, that was hers. Seeing no possible way to mend the situation therefore ruining all future chances, she decided to leave the café with some of her dignity intact.

“I—I’m sorry,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes. Neb gathered her coat and stood up, placing a handful of coins on the table as a tip. “I’ve made a bronto-sized fool of myself. I need to go.” Tying her belt, she felt tears begin to swell from sheer embarrassment. He opened his mouth to speak, but she was too desperate to leave. She gave him one last look.

“It was nice meeting you, Cullen. I hope you find happiness.” And with that, she bolted out of the warmth of the café and out into the frigid afternoon air, briskly making her way back to the bus stop. She looked behind her, thankful her blind date had enough common sense not to pursue her.

She reached the graffiti-riddled corner again and her peddler appeared to have moved on. Taking out her phone, she dialed Josephine. It rang once before her winsome friend answered.

“And how did it go? Try to include as many details as possible!”

She pinched her nose between her fingers, still keeping in her tears. “Josie, I blew it. I’d rather not relive the humiliation.”

“What? But-“

“Listen, instead of relaying my most recent failure to you in explicit detail, what say _you_ come by my place tonight? You bring the wine and dessert, I’ll cook dinner and we lose ourselves in a sordid, historically inaccurate romance serial on Bardflix. Everybody wins.”

“I—oh, Andraste’s flaming pantyhose…!”

It was unlike her to swear. She had always prided herself on being able to express herself while never resorting to vulgarities. “Josie? Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? No! Only, I have another engagement tonight.”

“Oh. You didn’t tell me. You’re usually only free on Saturday nights...”

“It was a very, _very_ recent…engagement.” She paused. “I have a date.”

“A date?”

“With a close friend. Well – we haven’t seen each other in years, but I’d still call her a friend, I suppose. We’d attended university together in Orlais, never wanting to risk our friendship until we’d fallen out of contact completely. On a chance encounter, I’d come to learn that she now resides in Haven! We had begun talking and it was like no time had passed at all. I was still feeling wistful after helping you prepare yesterday evening, and so in the spirit of romance, I asked her to dinner. She was only available tonight but she said yes! Maker, listen to me gush. Oh, I hope that you do not fault me!”

Neb smiled, feeling her throat tighten at the Antivan’s excitement. “No, Josie, that’s great! Do try to enjoy yourself,” she repeated her friend’s words from last night.

“But if you require anything – anything at all, you will not hesitate to call me, agreed?”

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll just have a quiet night in. Just me and Cole.”

She said goodbye when the next bus arrived, spending the entire ride staring at the sticky floor. She trudged the steps to her apartment and opened the door to find her cat chewing on a delivery menu. It was then that Neb realized she hadn’t eaten yet today and wasn’t in the right head space to cook. She placed an order, washed her face and changed back into her pajamas. The rest of the afternoon was spent sucking down spicy noodles while listening to an old vinyl of Orlesian love songs. Cole never left her side as she closed her eyes to the singer’s throaty vibrato.

“Just you and me, Cole,” she said, letting the tears finally fall. _That’s what I wanted, right?_


	4. Mia

Cullen finished his morning run before sunrise, relishing the sense of solitude that accompanied the city in its dawning hours. Breakfast was a protein shake that promised to be free of wheat, sugar and flavor, complete with a delectable pale grey color after mixing it with water. After a cold shower and shave, he pressed his ensemble with care – even though he was still unsure as to why he was making such an effort at all.

He’d arrived at the café early, well-groomed and ahead of schedule, though he couldn’t shake his uncertainty. The skin on his shoulder stung as a cruel reminder that he needed to buy more elfroot balm. Was he ready for this? But it was an order from his manager, and years of police training primed him for following his superior’s instructions. It was one of the reasons Varric hired him. He scouted the crowded scene for signs of his mystery date, only to find an empty table with an embarrassing “Reserved” sign on it. _Varric wasn’t lying_. He occupied himself with some dry reading to quiet his rising self-doubt, trying to shake the nagging sensation that he was being watched.

At exactly 10:00, he heard the bell on the door chime as someone entered and when he looked up he felt his stomach knot. A woman. A bit taller than average. Her brunette hair was as impeccably styled as her form-fitting trench coat, which was cinched over a voluptuous waist and paired with heeled suede boots. There was an air of grace about her that was positively magnetic. _What was it that Varric said yesterday?_ He watched her as she placed an order and flash a smile so sweet to the barista that he was almost willing to don an apron and jump behind the counter himself just to see it again. And when she caught him looking at her, he was instantly bewitched.

  _Blessed Andraste, please let it be her_.

Any nervousness he felt was replaced by a need. He _needed_ to talk to this woman - whoever she was - for whatever reason. She looked at him again and Cullen couldn’t recall a time he felt so excited. His heart could have easily beaten itself clean out of his chest. Then she was walking toward him and it was almost overwhelming. Then she was _talking_ to him and oh, Andraste, her voice was _decadent_ , like chocolate melting on his tongue. Up close, he saw the peppering of freckles across her nose, giving her olive skin a youthful radiance. Her eye color was a warm brown, like whiskey, and he felt drunk just by gazing into them. Cullen was never prone to self-disclosure, but speaking with Neb felt natural.

But then he spoke like a fool, and she was gone.

He sat in the café for another hour after she left, wracked by guilt. Why did he say such a thing – and more importantly, why did he speak it with such conviction? Chief Stannard was vigilant about monitoring the local refugee and immigrant population in the Lowtown district, but Cullen had sworn to leave her oppressive influence behind. His sister only served to guilt him further when she called him that evening, only to learn that his first attempt at romance in over a decade resulted in his date angrily storming out of the building after his blunder.

“That’s your problem, little brother. You can’t move on because you haven’t let go of what happened yet – and don’t roll your eyes at me! I can practically _hear_ you doing it.”

Her scolding didn’t stop him from doing so as he paced around his living room. “I’m _trying_ , Mia. That has to be worth something.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” She huffed. “Look, it’s been _three years_. You know what I’m going to say: have you tried talking to someone?”

“…No.”

“Have you _considered_ it?”

“Not…no, it’s not necessary.”

“Cullen, if this has something to do with pride...”

“I’m not proud!”

“Everyone goes through this. There’s no shame in it! You know, _I_ had to talk to someone. After the occupation ended.”

“It’s…it’s not the same thing, Mia.”

“’Not the same thing’?! There were foreign soldiers marching our streets! We were forced to evacuate when the bombings started. We lost _everything_. Bran’s wife was pregnant! The comm lines were down! We had no way of telling you that we were safe in South Reach!”

“I—I know. I’m sorry.”

“No, you don’t know! Because _you_ were off in Kirkwall. You didn’t even come home when they declared the truce. Life might have been shit for you, Cullen, but it was shit for us too! _We_ found a way to move on – and now you need to do the same.”

He sighed. Apart from the nightmares, stubbornness was his greatest nemesis. After getting out of Kirkwall and taking a prescription to quell his anxiety, he insisted that he could manage with a strict routine and by devoting himself to his new career. “Talking to someone” felt like an unnecessary luxury, and if his sparse apartment was any indication, he was never one to indulge in excess. “Why? What would it matter if I was, anyway? Hm? I can’t change anything that happened by _talking_ , and at the end of the day I’m alone, with my face marked by the grim reminder that I _failed_. Those thoughts will _never_ leave me!”

Mia remained silent, waiting for him to finish. She was persistent, but by the grace of the Maker she could be patient when she knew he needed it. Her voice was softer when she spoke again. “Because I love you, and you deserve better than this.”

“…I’ll consider it.”

“You’re impossible sometimes.”

“It runs in the family, you know that.”

She laughed quietly. “I suppose you’re right. I’m not much better.” A pause. “Hey, you said that your date was a therapist, right?”

“A _music_ therapist.”

“Well shit, Cullen! You used to sing. Why don’t you ask her on a second date?”

“I’ve humiliated myself enough to last a lifetime, Mia. Besides, I think she’d rather impale herself on a pike than talk to me again.”

“Oh, well…it was just an idea. Cheer up, little brother. So you fucked up. Consider it practice. What is it they say? ‘There’s always more bears in the Hinterlands’?”

“Hmph.” As ashamed as he felt, Cullen took the encounter as a sign that pursuing a romantic relationship wasn’t the best idea. It was getting late, so he said his goodbyes to his sister and got ready for bed. He avoided his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

* * *

_No response. Was there something affecting the comm signal that prevented him from calling for backup, and if so, how did the Blood Mages have access to such technology?_

_“Lieutenant! They have us surrounded!” Barris shouted._

_Fire flasks continued to shatter around them and the heat from the amber blazes prevented them from scattering to any one side. Cullen couldn’t shake the suspicion that they were being herded as they darted across the open floor to the old management offices._

_What happened next was too fast. The squad burst through the only available door ahead, revealing crates of processed lyrium within. He remembered the familiar electrical scent, but it was mixed with something foreign – something sour and acidic. This was wrong. It was all wrong, but there wasn’t time to assess._

_In a blink, the explosion threw him through the air, pelting him with bullets of drywall and cement. He landed with a hard skid and felt his ribs crack underneath his vest. His helmet shattered on impact, the jagged shards tearing at his face like beastly fangs. Then, there was only deafening silence. He knew his eardrums had burst. His legs and shoulders burned and the sour smell was replaced with soot, smoke and his own scorched flesh. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Throat singed; couldn’t call for help. No response. Too fast. What happened? Where were the Blood Mages? Where were his men?_

_Bloodied, burned and battered, every breath he took sent a shockwave of pain through him. Maker, it was pure agony but his surging adrenaline kept him conscious through it all. He turned his head and vaguely made out another body lying near him. Through the haze, he recognized Keran’s badge. Keran?! Was he still alive?!_

_Groaning in pain, he slowly rolled his limp body toward his squad mate, realizing his shoulder blades were broken, too. Finally at his side, Cullen raised a weak arm through the murky smoke to check the officer’s pulse – only to feel a mound of hot, wet flesh where the neck should have been._

_Keran no longer had a head._

* * *

Rousing from his nightmare, Cullen tore the blankets off of the bed. _Too tight; too trapped_.  Flushed, he could still feel the searing heat, only he was being immolated from within. _Too hot; so hot. Can’t breathe!_ He started choking, like his lungs were still blackened with smoke. The walls looked like were melting. The floor appeared warped, as if from heat exposure. When he brought his hand to cover his cough, he nearly jumped at the sight of sticky, dark blood on his fingertips. Looking to his left, he caught a glimpse of Keran’s mutilated corpse in the bed next to him.

“No, no, no! It’s not real! Not real. Not real…” He repeated the mantra to himself, clenching his fists and rocking back and forth. When he finally opened his eyes, the dizziness began to fade. The parquet floors followed their familiar geometric pattern. The art on the walls was no longer crooked. His hands were clean. It wasn’t real. He knew it wasn’t real, but the nightmares were relentless, despite his medications. They were the reason he was discharged from police service – and they were the reason he couldn’t move on with his present, which, now that the nightmare faded, was all he could think about.

The first thing he saw when he turned on the lamp was Neb’s business card on the nightstand. He forgot he’d set it there when he came home yesterday. Still panting and sweat-soaked, he picked it up and studied it:

RESOUNDING JOYS MUSIC THERAPY  
_Neb Trevelyan | Certified Music Therapist_

Maybe Mia was right. Maybe he couldn’t do this alone.


	5. The Girl With the Nightingale Tattoo

Neb spent the next week dedicating herself to her work. Playing music helped keep her mind off of her own embarrassment, and playing for clients meant that she had uphold her notoriously cheerful disposition. Cole had been particularly attentive; always appearing at her feet with a soft purr whenever she felt down on her luck again. At night, he’d rest his fuzzy head on her stomach as she sprawled across the sofa, reading a book while music played. She’d sold her copy of Genitivi’s memoirs. The hardcover spine on her bookshelf only served as a chronic reminder of her own inadequacies.

As usual, she was with Bartrand on Friday until evening. He preferred to listen to her strum on the guitar or sing, his blue eyes looking at the floor and occasionally swaying his head to the music. On her next weekly session with him, however, he began humming his own melody while Neb improvised, strumming in time to his gruff arpeggios.

Varric, by the grace of the Maker, didn’t pry about the fate of his impromptu arrangement. When his brother arrived, she’d anticipated being hounded with questions, but it was clear he’d been able to figure out what happened from Cullen. “I suppose even someone like _me_ can be wrong once in a while,” he held up his hands and shrugged. She said her thank-yous and goodbyes as she began packing up her equipment.

“The story isn’t over,” Neb jumped at Bartrand’s unfamiliar voice. The man rarely spoke. “He’s only introduced the characters, but the story hasn’t played out yet. That’s what he’s thinking.” With that, her client sauntered out of the front door, still humming brusquely.

* * *

Where Neb’s potential love life was steadily plummeting, Josephine’s was soaring to new heights. She’d barely heard from her raven haired friend at all. Saturday morning was their first reunion since the night before the café fiasco, where the attorney relayed all the details of her blossoming romance over breakfast.

“You know there is that saying where two people meet again and it’s like no time has passed?” Josephine’s copper skin was practically glowing as she described their first date between bites of quiche and arugula.  “It was like we were attending parties together as university students again.”

Neb listened intently while sipping on a glass of orange juice and wishing to the Maker she’d ordered a mimosa instead. The mystery woman was a government web security professional (which was a fancy way of saying she was a hacker-slash-spy) by the name of Leliana de Barde, a Val Royeaux native. The two were once as inseparable as Neb and Josephine were now, partaking in a series of wild acts of youthful exuberance, including one nailing the other’s lacy unmentionables to a Chantry corkboard. Even if she believed it was a sin, she couldn’t quell the sense of envy she felt over the fact that her newfound romance also came packaged with a bonus shared past. Was she going to lose her best friend?

“…and then we stayed up all night at her apartment and – oh! Neb, her décor is exquisite! She gave me a tarot reading after smoking this special blend of elfroot…”

“You smoked _root_?! _You_?”

Josephine gave a sly smile. "There was a time when I was not so prudish - I am certain you were the same."

Neb recalled her earlier years as an undergraduate: spending most of it in solitude, reclining in bed under a slew of mismatched quilts. "O-Oh yeah, of course! I was _quite_ the party animal myself." She coughed, suddenly taking great interest in the placement of the table's salt and pepper shakers. "So…she gave you a tarot reading?"

"Oh, yes! She has this beautiful deck that she purchased in Rivain. Anyway, there were three cards, and she told me my past, present and future! The future card was the Ace of Pentacles - are you listening?"

"Hm? Oh, yes. Go on."

"So Leliana told me that the Ace of Pentacles predicted a great change and prosperity, and wouldn't you know it? Yesterday, the firm promoted me to associate! …Which is why I'll be handling the bill."

"You made associate?! Josie, that's fantastic!"

"Thank you! We are celebrating tonight. Leliana is taking me to see this romantic tragedy at the opera…" she paused, noting Neb's solemn expression. "…I could ask for her to order a third ticket if you'd like to come?"

It was no unknown fact that Neb _loved_ the opera; the roaring orchestra, the dramatic storytelling, and the _singing_. A passionate aria could move her to tears - and _has_ , frequently. But this was a time for Josephine's new relationship to blossom, and given her current state, Neb would only be reminded that her life was its own romantic tragedy.

"Thanks, but I think I'll pass." She shrugged and Josephine opened her mouth to protest. "I'm not in the mood to watch couples fervently proclaim their love for one another right now."

"Another evening in, I take it?"

"Another evening in," Neb repeated.

They ate in silence for a few bites. Neb was sliding her fried potatoes across her plate when she was startled by the sound of Josephine's fork clanging on porcelain. "I know! There is a litigation officer at my office named Cory. I do believe he's available. If you'd like, I could arrange for another ticket?"

"Oh, thanks, but-"

"You might like him! He loves history! He's a pedant for ancient Tevinter…"

" _No more blind dates_!" Neb said, louder than she intended, feeling guilty at her friend's hurt expression. "Not…for a little while, at least," she buffered. "You two celebrate. You deserve it."

Josephine huffed. "Very well, but do promise me you'll go out with us sometime soon."

"I will," she reassured. "I promise. I just need some time to figure out what I want - things like that. My melancholy would only damper the evening." She took another sip of orange juice, which now tasted oversweet. _Maker, why didn’t I ask for booze in this thing?_

“Neb, are you – I mean – I know this is a surprise. You and I have been together for so long, but you must believe that our friendship is still my priority.” She reached across the table and placed a hand over hers. “I would never turn my back on you.”

She took Josephine’s hand between hers and squeezed. The Antivan had a way with words; a way of speaking to a person’s innermost desires. While Neb loved people, Josephine _knew_ them. A conversation with her was never superficial. The way her grey eyes were looking into hers now made her feel even more reassured. “I…thank you, Josie. That means everything.”

"How about in a couple of weeks, you come with me to Leliana's apartment? Then you two can formally meet and she can give _you_ your very own tarot reading!"

 _A tarot reading?_ "I don't know about that…"

"What have you to lose? If you are looking for guidance, then see how the cards relate to your own intuition."   

“But you know me. The cards are man-made, not the will of the Maker. You _know_ my parents were strict about these things.” Faith had always played a part in her upbringing. Her devout family made sure all seven of their children were raised under the Maker’s guidance, and anything that wasn’t approved in the Chant – including fortunetelling – was deplorable, bordering heretical.

“The cards are simply to show us beautiful expressions of spiritual realities and the human condition. They are not false prophecies that work _against_ the Maker; rather, think of them as simply another way of interpreting the _will_ of the Maker. Surely there can be no evil in that?”

She stewed over the idea for a few moments. "All right - but I’m not smoking anything. You’ve convinced me."

"I _can_ be persuasive, can't I?"

"Maker, you're such a lawyer."

" _Associate_ lawyer,” she corrected. “And the one who is paying for your breakfast. So eat up!"

Neb obeyed, taking a hearty bite of her cheese crepe. As she chewed, she began laughing so hard her shoulders shook.

“And what is it you find so amusing?” Josephine asked.

“I _can’t_ believe you smoked root!”

* * *

Two more weeks passed before Neb was standing in the lobby of a luxurious downtown Haven apartment. Where Neb’s petite single bedroom space on the fringes of the city could be called “quaint” and “homey” with its ivy covered brick walls and trimmed hedges leading up the modest stone passageway, this place was the textbook definition of “grandiose.” Elevated ceilings, marble floors and crown molding illuminated the golden flourishes, festoons and filigree along the rows of rectangular mirrors adorning the halls. It looked like something out of one of those period dramas she was fond of.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Josephine asked, noting her dumbstruck expression.

“It’s…definitely not what I’m used to. I think this place could give the Winter Palace in Halamshiral a run for its sovereigns.” She couldn’t ignore her self-consciousness in her high waist denim, tattered sneakers and wrinkled grey cotton sweater. Even the door handles were more ostentatious than she was.

“And you haven’t seen her apartment yet!”

They reached the pearlescent white door and Josephine gave it three enthusiastic knocks.

“In a moment!” the woman on the other side cried. The voice was sultry, with a velvety Orlesian accent that could soothe a raging dragon.

“I’m excited for you two to finally meet,” her friend whispered. “I think you will come to like each other.”

“I don’t know Josie,” she smirked. “I don’t like that she keeps you up all night doing drugs…”

“I am _never_ going to live the elfroot thing down, am I?”

“So was it a puff or a full inhale?” she goaded.

“ _Stop_.”

Before Neb could make a smart retort, the door clicked open and Neb was staring at the object of her best friend’s affections. Silken strawberry hair framed her face in a sleek bob that beautifully complemented the soft blue silk blouse she wore tucked into a black velvet skirt and paired with luxurious patent leather pumps that surely cost a month’s rent. Leliana was petite, lithe and lean, with moon white skin and oceanic eyes that scanned her top to bottom before turning to Josephine.

“It’s so good to see you, Josie,” she said, opening her arms so the two women could embrace. Neb noticed an intricate greyscale tattoo of a nightingale in flight on her left wrist. The bird was swooping within a Chantry sunburst. “And this must be your friend…”

“Leliana, this is Neb Trevelyan – the woman I told you about.”

“Yes, the one who wishes to see what’s in her cards.” The way she studied her was intimidating; as if she was checking her for physical weaknesses that could be exploited. “Come in.”

If there _were_ words to describe Leliana’s impeccable taste, Neb wasn’t sure they’d been invented yet. Some words sprang to mind: exquisite, exceptional, a little bit intimidating. But they couldn’t quite do her space justice. It looked like the cover of a high-end interior design magazine. Lush Rivaini rugs and a myriad of vibrant floor cushions only enhanced the opulence of the massive crystal chandelier hanging above their heads. From there, she’d draped a series of string lights so they spanned across the ceiling and highlighted the white sofa. Accompanied by numerous vintage candelabras, the place was positively pellucid. The tall windows were dressed in classic jacquard curtains, where, were it daytime, the row of lush plants in copper pots would be bathed in warm sunlight. On a nearby shelf was a collection of antique statues of Andraste, some wooden folk art and others carved from solid bronze. Her mahogany dining table showcased a pristine crystal centerpiece, practically overflowing with sweet-smelling lilies. Above the white brick fireplace hung what was clearly a contemporary gallery purchase: a splatter painted portrait of a chubby pink nug. She was so lost in drinking in all of the details that she’d barely heard Josephine tell her it was time to start.

“Hm? Already?”

“It is _already_ late. It is best to commence your reading now,” the redhead explained. Leliana motioned for her to sit on a beaded teal floor cushion while she took her cards out of a mirrored mosaic box. “You chose a good night for your first reading – a new moon. Satina’s spiritual energy is strongest at this time.”

 _I have no idea what any of that means_. Neb smiled nervously as she was instructed to shuffle the cards. They were glossy and marvelously painted. Once they were sorted, she was instructed to cut the deck into three even piles with her left hand and to choose five cards from one pile. She winced a little as Leliana touched the first card to turn it over.

“Are you ready to see what your future holds?”

She inhaled deeply, letting it out in one huff. “I am.”

“Then let’s begin, shall we?”


	6. Cole

_In the long hours of the night_

_When hope has abandoned me,_

_I will see the stars and know_

_Your Light remains._

– Trials 1:1

Cole was a special cat. Granted, she knew anyone else would say the same about theirs, but Neb was convinced that there was an almost supernatural intelligence to her cute companion – and one worth acknowledging. In many ways, he was no different from any other feline: he sprawled on top of the radiator in the winter to sap its warmth, batted at her shoelaces as he wove in between her feet when she was bringing in groceries and loved to watch her open cans of tuna while taking up precious real estate on the kitchen counter.

In other ways, he was perceptively tuned in to her emotions: always there to comfort her at her most crestfallen; his low purr like soothing whispered words. She was convinced that he’d sensed her pain in Ostwick, and that it’s what brought them together.

In times of great strife, Neb had a recurring dream of a radiant ball of white light. The anomaly would approach her but she was never afraid. It embraced her—peaceful, soft and warm—and when she awoke her mood was lifted. She thought that it was a sign from the Maker that he was still watching over her.

It had been five years since she’d heard the news.

_It was dreary winter morning in Ostwick and a bitter wind threatened to burst through her office window with an incessant rattle against the panes. The terrible revelation blazed through the department like a conflagration, leaving ashen, sullen faces in its wake: a refugee boy was found in an alleyway–starved to death. The body laid undisturbed for days before a waste management crew noticed him slumped against the dumpster. Neb was haunted by the image of the child, uprooted, frightened, dying alone and cold in a city that forgot about him. To the media, his passing was just another tragedy of war, a bag of bones to be ground and fed to the masses in the name of higher ratings, but to Neb, he was a victim of a flawed system; a system she was a part of._

_Grief knotted up inside her like a tangled ball of yarn before unfurling into a cascade of hot tears. No matter her efforts, she couldn’t help everyone. Doubt nagged at her for the rest of the day, a splinter in her mind. She felt useless, retreating to the Chantry where she still felt a sense of purpose. Instead of taking a seat within, she kneeled outside on the frozen stone steps, feeling her moist eyelashes grow cold while watching her cloudy puffs of breath evanesce in the chilly night air._

_Not knowing what else to do, she prayed. She prayed for resolution. She prayed for healing. She prayed for peace. She prayed for relief._

_“Maker, though darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure.”_

_It was then that she thought she caught a glimpse of the familiar white light coming toward her—the serene, iridescent glow from her childhood. Neb closed her eyes and continued her prayers, drowning out her surroundings and waiting for it to heal her. What she felt instead was a brush against her leg accompanied by a small chirp that shook her out of her solipsism. Looking down, she saw the kitten at her ankles, brilliantly white, utterly freezing and in desperate need of a meal. His diminutive frame indicated that was much too young to be separated from his litter and was likely abandoned. Choking back a sob at the sight of his timid, pastel blue eyes, she scooped the furry bundle into her hands and held him close to her chest. The kitten merely rested against her and she felt at ease._

That night, Neb climbed the steps to her Ostwick apartment with a kitten under her coat pocket and a box of formula under her arm. If she could save someone today, it would be him. She named him Cole, after the refugee boy, and watched him grow and play. From that day forward, he was her security—peaceful, soft and warm—who found her when she needed him most. Her little light of hope. Where her career fluctuated between traumatizing and agonizing, Cole was a constant source of security.

Which is why his behavior was so unusual on the morning after Leliana’s reading. He paced in front of the apartment door, as if entranced, while Neb ruminated over tarot cards. The Six of Swords predicted that love would find her soon with someone she already knew, but _who_? According to the Knight of Swords, her love would be “opinionated, pragmatic, action-oriented and prone to hastiness.” She poured milk into her morning tea and watched it spiral against the rim of her cup while she cataloged every acquaintance. The only man that came to mind was Varric, and he wasn’t a contender. Not only had the dwarf bluntly indicated his unavailability early on, but she was rather convinced that the odds were in Bianca’s favor should the automobile grow sentient and choose to assert its dominance over the matter.

She slipped into her sneakers and unbolted the door to go get the mail which is when Cole uncharacteristically darted outside. Her white ball dashed down the hallway at the speed of a shooting star.

“Cole, stop!” The cat made his way toward the open window at the end where he leaped onto the ledge and looked back. He was strictly an indoor pet and unaccustomed to roaming outside. Not to mention the dawn hours were still treacherous. The dregs of the night before still lurked in the early morning shadows. He seemed content to wait for her and Neb felt a sense of relief when she reached him and he stayed put. A relief short-lived, for a second later he plummeted out of the window and into the juniper bush below.

She turned on her heels and charged out the door after him, nearly tripping over him as he ran in front of her feet and onto the sidewalk. No, no, no! Where he normally responded to her voice, he didn’t acknowledge her calls. Instead, Cole focused on the path ahead, in view one moment and gone the next like a spirit. Neb’s thighs burned as the lactic acid consumed her unused muscles. Her chest ached as she unrelentingly pursued him. She cried out to anyone who might be listening, “Please!” Huff. “Stop that cat!”

It was always just her and Cole. He needed to come back. He couldn’t abandon her. Please. Her speeding specter veered right around a street corner faster than Neb could keep up. Her body ached and she began to lose pace. Just when her legs were about to give out, she made it to the corner herself and crashed directly—and rather painfully—into an oncoming jogger. The two bodies tumbled, scraping their limbs against the pavement. She was too out of breath to ask if the other person was okay, or to apologize. She was overcome with disappointment. At this rate, she would never catch up to Cole. He was gone, and she was alone. She couldn’t decide who was more vulnerable.

Between her wheezes, she heard the other figure stand up. “Maker! I am so sorry! I…wait a minute. Neb?!”

 _I recognize that voice._ Neb opened her eyes to the same man with the same pair of warm amber eyes that she hoped she’d never have to see again: Cullen. His chiseled physique highlighted by a fitted black pair of track pants and a tight thermal that showcased his broad shoulders and slim waste. While his hair was coiffed at the café last month, it was now a wild mess of windswept waves and curls. Blessed Andraste, the man was gorgeous. She realized her own unkempt appearance in comparison: drenched with sweat, morning hair frizzed and pajama pants sagging while she gasped for air on the cold cement. _Could this day get any worse?_

“Cullen. Hi.” She propped herself up and he scrambled to her side to help her stand. Even if he was a police apologist, he was a Void-ridden polite police apologist. 

“Did I hurt you? Are you all right?” He looked her over, unperturbed by her disheveled demeanor.

“No, I’m—I’m fine. You didn’t happen to see a cat running by, did you?”

“A cat?”

“Small and white?”

“No,” he contemplated. “I’m afraid not.”

Her seething frustration burst forth like a geyser from the earth’s crust. “ _Fuck_!” she shouted, taking Cullen by surprise. She bent over digging her fingernails into her throbbing thighs until they stung. “He’s gone. No, no, no, he can’t be gone.”

“Neb, I’m…I’m sorry. If you want I can look for—“

“No,” she heaved. “No, I’ll just—“

“It’s no trouble! I can—“

“I’m _fine_ , Cullen!” She covered her mouth, embarrassed that she lost her composure in front of him again. “I’m sorry. Thank you. I appreciated it, but I just need to go home and plan a better search.”

He sighed. “And…I’m sorry, too.”

She raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

He paused. “I mean, I’m sorry about before. The…last time we met. I don’t know why I said what I said. You were right. And…Maker, I was an ass.”

 _He’s apologizing?_ So he wasn’t offended by her outburst? “I…Thank you, Cullen. I’m sorry I shouted at you and called you a heartless pig.”

“You didn’t call me that.”

“Well…I thought it.” She was so nervous over the sheer awkwardness of their second encounter. The lingering stress of her cat running away caused her to chuckle uncontrollably. He joined her, and oh, she forgot how musical his laugh was. Their cheer had its own harmony complete with matching staccato pants.

“Mrow.”

They both turned their heads to the shrubbery in the yard nearby, where Cole revealed himself and casually strutted toward them. Neb sighed in relief as she collected him, cradled him over her shoulder and nuzzled her cheek against his downy head. “Oh, Cole! Thank the Maker!”

She turned around and Cullen was standing there staring at her with an unreadable expression. His lips were pursed as if words were hanging on his tongue and he was debating whether to leave them alone unsaid. After their pause became more than uncomfortable, she spoke up.

“Well, I suppose I should get going. I have to get this one home. It was, uh…nice talking to you, Cullen.” With that, she proceeded to turn the corner when his voice stopped her.

“Neb, wait!”

Her heart buzzed in her chest and her legs quivered when she addressed him again. “What is it?”

At that moment, Leliana’s words rang through her mind like the call of a mighty bell. _Someone you already know._

“I’m…grateful…I ran into you today. Maybe it’s a sign—maybe it’s fate? Maker, I’m no good at this.”

 _Opinionated. Pragmatic. Action-oriented. Prone to hastiness._ Of course! He was once a police officer; a theological pedant with a downright uncanny ability to put his foot in his mouth. He was also the man who made her laugh, whom she felt comfortable talking to and, before their disagreement, was a man she could have seen a possible future with. Was this really happening?

“I’ve been doing this alone for so long, and—and maybe it really is time…Perhaps my sister was right…”

Maker, was he asking her on a second date? “Go on,” she insisted, holding Cole tighter as he began to squirm in her embrace.

“Neb, I understand if your answer is no. I've thought about calling a dozen times. I understand if you’d never want to see me again, but I was wondering, if…if…”

_If I’m still single? If I’m willing to give you another chance?_

He took a deep breath, releasing it in one heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, let me start over. Neb: are you…”

“Yes?”  _The story isn't over._

“…Are you still accepting new clients?”


	7. Session One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter, I'm afraid. Without going too much into detail, I've been battling chronic health issues that take a lot out of me and leave little time for writing. The upside is that I have the story planned, so once my health is improved I can hopefully get some routine back. While the holiday season ramps up as well as my illness, I hope this little interlude can hold you over. I appreciate every one of you! Thank you for your kudos and your comments.

_“You’re no longer fit for duty, Lieutenant. The chief has issued for your mandatory resignation. Turn in your badge and firearm immediately.”_

_“No. This is ridiculous.”_

_“Lieutenant!”_

_“If this has anything to do with Quentin..."_

_"You're lucky he didn't press charges!"_

_"There is_ nothing  _wrong with me."_

_Captain Vallen pursed her lips so tightly they nearly disappeared and Cullen knew he’d overstepped. “Since the moment you sat down in that chair you’ve been thrumming your fingers on your knee and glancing at my doorway every few seconds as if the station was under attack. Have you noticed that?”_

_He hadn’t. “I…”_

_Vallen sighed. “You’ve served us well, Rutherford, but rules are rules.” She gave him a reproachful look. “You’re a good man. Now go take care of yourself.”_

_“Please, Captain, I can_ still _serve—“_

_“No!” she raised her voice. “Your psychiatric analysis proves otherwise. Now put your badge and your firearm on my desk and go home.”_

Home? _The station was his home. He was an officer first and a man second. The only other home he knew was his childhood home, which was now nothing more than ash and rubble._

_“I don’t have anywhere else to go. Please, Captain Vallen…”_

_The pity in her green eyes burned him. “I’m sorry.”_

* * *

His first session wasn’t quite what he expected, though he didn’t know exactly _what_ to expect. Neb listened to him, in her fuzzy pajamas and sneakers while holding her lost-then-found cat and agreed to accept him as a client. He was grateful she didn't push the subject, and respected her professionalism when he couldn't explain the situation beyond I-have-nightmares-and-the-meds-alone-aren't-cutting-it. Though, she knew his past as an officer and was smart enough to infer on her own. Resounding Joys was clean and modern with open windows and marbled tile flooring that clacked its own tuneful echo. He was escorted to a private music chamber complete with a shimmering plaque: _Therapy center renovated thanks to the boundless generosity of Varric Tethras, an extraordinary man and primary patron of Resounding Joys Music Therapy for many years._

 _Of course_ , he thought. Neb had mentioned that she was his brother's music therapist. That would explain the cushioned leather sofa that greeted him where he was expecting a wooden stool. He'd only just taken a seat and begun paging through a psychology magazine when Neb entered, an acoustic guitar in one hand and another strapped to her back. She wore a flowing white blouse with a crocheted floral neckline paired with black leggings. Her hair was braided out of her face into a crown around her head and he thought the style suited her. When she sat next to him, he could see that the peppering of freckles on her nose continued onto her shoulders along her open neckline. He imagined what she might have looked like as a child, all sun-kissed and carefree through busy Ostwick streets. When she smiled at him with pink lips and long eyelashes, Cullen couldn’t deny she looked exquisite - even when he knew he shouldn't think that about her.

_No, you lost your chance long ago, you idiot. Keep this professional._

She was certainly more collected than when she unceremoniously crashed head-on into him. Neb was so frantic, panting and looking more helpless than the cat she'd been chasing. He'd half expected her to refuse his offer to hire her. The way she pursed her lips and looked down, the way her eyes fluttered when he asked, he felt he'd insulted her. Yet, once again, she proved to be more gracious than he could ever be. "O-Of course," she said, voice a little strangled as her cat wriggled in her arms.

She showed him the anatomy of her guitar with expert finesse and Cullen noted her strap was patterned with fuzzy looking kittens. The other guitar, she revealed, was for him. "I'm going to teach you how to play with me."

“So this is what you do all day? Show someone how to strum a guitar?”

“Music soothes the soul in many ways. This is my recommendation for _you_.”

Cullen ran his fingers along the smooth mahogany neck; the sleek exterior and cool tuning pegs soothed the residual sting on his fingertips. "And why do you think this will help me?"

"Something tells me you're someone who prefers _doing_. I think you might benefit in your therapy if you have an outlet that's a bit more hands-on - literally."

“So what else do you do?”

“Group sessions. Either I’ll play, sing or they’ll play and sing with me. Sometimes I work one-on-one, like with you. Many veterans seek our services, from past wars to as early as the occupation. I also perform for the dying. They or their loved ones can request some favorite songs—or in my Elven clients’ cases, something traditional to carry the soul into death.”

“You sing to people on their deathbeds?”

She nodded. “Death can be a minatory thing, but if this career has taught me anything it’s that the music in our lives lingers after we’ve departed. The love contained within it is eternal and can outlast any pain.”

He wet his lips with his tongue. “And can it stop me from reliving the past?”

Her gaze softened. “…I believe it can help. You’re still fighting your demons, and this,” she tapped the body of his guitar, “Is a weapon like any other. Music has the power to tame the most savage of beasts; to render a scarlet eyed-tiger a mere kitten sleeping in clover. Music can bring mirth out of malady; can revive what once felt irretrievably lost. _Never_ discredit the power of music.”

“Are you this poetic with _all_ your clients?” he asked, softly chuckling.

Her defined cheeks flushed like two ripe apples. “You _do_ seem to bring out my impassioned side, don’t you?”

He couldn't argue that any more than he couldn't argue that he enjoyed her impassioned side. "Do you think we could get me a strap with dogs on it?" he asked, attempting humor.

"Oh? You don't like my cats?"

"I tend to lean a bit more toward the canine side, I'm afraid."

"I knew there was something off about you," she said while she opened a song book between them. "All right then, dog man. I think I know the perfect song to learn first. You know _Andraste's Mabari_ , right?"

* * *

 “One hour a day,” she told him. So, Cullen strummed _Andraste’s Mabari_ for an hour. Then one hour became two, the same simple chords. Then two became three, complete with his downstairs neighbor pounding on their ceiling with what he presumed to be a broom handle until he finally stopped playing. Over the next few days, the chord progression became innate. The gentle vibration against him provided a sort of comfort, and after one week he appreciated the instrument with a renewed vitality.

Neb was right, again.


	8. A Surprise Visit

“You don’t have any food in your fridge!” Cullen tensed as his sister transformed his kitchen into a din of slamming cupboards and rattling drawers. She drove up from her hobby farm in South Reach and arrived at his apartment lobby completely unannounced, much to the chagrin of the doorman. _I should have known what she was planning when she’d texted me asking for my address_.

“There’s some protein powder above the stove,” he said, though he knew full well the information wouldn’t placate her.

“Andraste’s ass, Cullen, I’d rather eat the throw pillows. Do you have anything I can _chew_?” She huffed and peered inside the tub before giving him an appraising look. “You’re too thin. Is this the only thing you’re eating?”

He shrugged.

“ _Cullen_?”

“I’m fine. There’s free catering at the office.” She raised a brow, weighing his response. She was always skeptical of his ability to take care of himself, though even he had to admit his history of neglectful behavior didn’t instill a sense of trust. “I’m _fine_ ,” he reassured her.

She crossed her arms at her chest and looked up at him. At only five-foot-three with short-cropped, fluffy blonde hair and barely a wrinkle, no one would ever guess her to be his elder sibling. “All right, I’ll take your word for it. Just buy some damned groceries next time.”

“Well, there’s a better chance I’ll have them if you tell me that you’re coming to visit.”

“That kind of ruins the fact that it’s a _surprise_ , Cullen. Besides, planning is bad for my spontaneous, free spirit - and that’s what you love most about me.” She wiggled her eyebrows and he scoffed. “Oh, and I think your doorman hates me.”

“You barged in unannounced."

"He was still snooty. How was I supposed to know I couldn’t go up without my name on a list?"

"He was only doing his job.”

“There wouldn’t have been a problem if _someone_ had put his own _flesh and blood_ on the accepted visitors list.” She had him there. He felt guilty that the thought didn't occur to him to add his own family. "What kind of place has to put visitors on a list, anyway?"

"The building is home to affluent clientele - a higher level of security is required."

"That includes you?"

"I suppose, yes, that includes me."

"You make too much money," she said, pointing at him. "You know you make too much money when you live in a building with a list. For what you're probably paying for this place, you could buy your very own plot of land down in South Reach."

"And I'm sure that's terrific news for people who live in South Reach."

Mia took a deep breath. "I’m sorry, I just got here and I’m already tearing into you like a dog with a bone, aren’t I?”

“You could stand to give me a _little_ more credit sometimes.”

“You’re right. I could.” She stood on her toes to hug him around his chest. “It’s just been so long since we’ve seen each other.”

“I know you do it because you care, Mia.” He realized how long it had really been since he’d last seen her, and he hugged her tighter. “While I’d prefer more warning next time, I _am_ happy you came.”

“All I'm trying to say is, this place feels so _haughty_. You're a country boy, Cullen! What happened to ice skating on the lake and helping mom and dad pick _real_ food from the garden? Now you've got your fancy executive job and you live on powder. Can you even see stars up here?"

Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck. Deep down, he was grateful that his sister made an effort to keep in contact with him; however, her constant fussing was sometimes as grueling as flossing his teeth with barbed wire. Yet, was she right? Is this where he saw himself; donning polished drake skin leather shoes in a corner office within an architecturally notorious sky rise and working under one of this age’s most elite business moguls?

Before he could reply she’d left the kitchen to survey his living room, not bothering to remove her hiking sandals that she paired with woolen socks. Cullen followed her while she commented on his sparse décor. “It still feels too impersonal; you could use more furniture.” _Clutter is suffocating._ “Your books are organized by color. Don’t you find that a bit weird?” _It helps me keep track of them all._ “Have you thought about getting some fresh plants?” _I’d never be here to water them._ “You know: I was reading up on all the toxins in these older buildings. Have you had your pipes checked for carcinogens?”

She stopped at his guitar, propped against the arm of his black sofa, and it gave him a sense of why she was here.

“So, you said you were seeing a music therapist?”

“Yes, I did – I am. I took your advice.”

“And is it the same girl you went out with?”

“…Yes, I’ve been working with her for the past few weeks.”

“Is it awkward?”

 _Awkward?_ No. If anything, Cullen was repeatedly humbled by Neb’s grace. Her willingness to work with him despite their fractured first encounter made him equally humbled by her kindness. While their attempt at an initial romantic relationship was a blunder, he was thankful that they were able to form a casual friendship during their sessions together. There was something about her positivity that—

“Will you play me something?”

“Hm?” Mia’s voice brought him out of his solipsism.

“On the guitar?”

He rubbed his neck again. “I only play one song and not very well.”

“I don’t mind! I want to hear what this mystery woman’s teaching you.”

He felt color rise in his ears and he was eager to change the subject. Playing the guitar was a new way of easing his anxiety, but it was still a pastime reserved for _him._ Him, and Neb.

“How about we go out to dinner instead? My treat,” he said, hoping she’d take the bait.

She did. “All right, little brother – but after that, we go grocery shopping. No more powder.”

* * *

Cullen took his sister to a modest pasta restaurant on the edge of downtown. Sitting across from her in her faded sweater and farmer’s jeans made him feel oddly overdressed. Then he wondered when he’d started to care about something as mundane as fashion, and why.

She told him about his family: their youngest sister Rosalie was still a university student and studying sculpture. Their younger brother Branson married his high school sweetheart (Cullen missed the wedding while working a case) and found work as a loan advisor after the occupation ended. He and his wife had a son during the occupation.

Mia paged through photos on her phone of her horses; yellow wheat fields under a cloudless country sky; missed birthday parties, filled with familiar faces that resonated laughter he’d long forgotten; the crematorium where their parents’ ashes were kept; a blurry shot of a stray dog that continued to terrorize her chickens.

“Oh, look! Here’s an old photo of us! Remember?” Cullen leaned forward to see a scene he recalled well: the lake was shimmering glass in the summer sun. Mia stood behind him, pulling him close. They were each a mess of wild, wet curls and missing front teeth. The age gap between Cullen and Mia and their two younger siblings gave them more time to bond with one another. He was ruminating over how many years had passed when his sister decided to revive the topic he’d tried to avoid.

“So, this music therapist…”

“What about her?” he asked, suddenly feeling defensive.

“Well, what’s she like? Does she harp on you if you haven’t been practicing?”

“No.” _She’s patient._ Cullen had a particularly bad few days and confessed he wasn’t playing. _“That’s okay,”_ she said. _“Setbacks can happen, but you’re here now.”_

“Have you told her what happened?” Mia continued, setting her phone down to swirl her fork around a serving of spaghetti.

He pursed his lips. “No…not yet.” Neb was anything but pushy when it came to his past. _“I’m not a psychiatrist, Cullen. You can tell me anything, but only if you want to.”_ He’d appreciated that.

“Are you _going_ to?”

A tension headache began to surface which made him feel more standoffish. “Mia, can we talk about something else?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” They ate in silence for a few more moments before she reached for her phone. “What was the name of the therapy center again?”

“Mia!”

“I just want to know my brother’s in good hands, is that so horrible?”

“Fine,” he sighed. “Resounding Joys.”

“Thank you.” More silence while her thumb glided across the screen. “Oh! They all have profiles! Which one is she?” Once again, she thrust her phone toward his face as she scrolled downward. Cullen pointed when he saw her face.

“That’s her.” It was an engaging photo. At least, to him it was. Neb’s inviting smile was framed by round cheeks and wavy hair – similar to the day they first met. She looked friendly, yet poised and professional.

Mia began reading her biography out loud. “’Neb believes that music supplies strength in times of healing. Using her background as a social worker, she takes a compassionate approach tailored to each individual’s needs. Whether she’s coordinating a group session at a Sunday morning Chantry service or working one-on-one with clients, her dedication and empathy make her an ideal therapist for sufferers of post-trauma and anxiety. Her success rate is a testament to the industry and proof that through song clients can have a second chance.’ Huh,” she finished, staring straight ahead of her.

“What does that mean? What’s ‘huh’?”

Mia was staring ahead and back at her phone. “From the side, would you say she had a slight crook to her nose?”

Now Cullen was confused. That was an oddly specific question. “A bit, yes. Why?”

“And she’s more on the…curvier side, would you say?” He felt himself blush as she mimed a large hourglass with her hands.

“I…That’s not your concern.”

“Maybe I should just go over and ask her?” _What is she talking about?_

“Please tell me you’re not thinking of accompanying me to a session…?”

“No. She’s just been sitting on the other side of the restaurant this whole time.”

 In hindsight, whipping his neck around with a throbbing headache probably wasn’t the best idea.


	9. The Hymn

As sure as he needed some Felandrisol to alleviate the kink in his neck and the dull drumming in his skull, the woman on the other side of the restaurant was indeed Neb. Cullen watched her for a few moments, her wavy dark hair bouncing gaily with every animated gesture she made as she conversed with two women he didn’t recognize, completely unaware that he and his sister were spying on them. It was shameful behavior, he knew it, but then she laughed and he cast aside his guilt.

 “That’s her, right?” Mia whispered. “Looks just like the photo.”

“Yes,” he confirmed, facing his sister again.

“You should go talk to her!”

“Absolutely not.”

“You know her. You even _dated_ her! What’s wrong with saying hello?”

“It was _one_ time.” He glanced back at her again and felt a shift in his stomach, the same fluttering, dropping sensation he’d get on carnival rides when he was young. They’d developed a rapport as client and therapist, but there was still a line he felt he shouldn’t cross. The first time they’d met casually he’d overstepped his bounds. He didn’t want to make the same mistake again. “Besides, she’s clearly with friends. It’s inappropriate.”

“You’re such an old fuddy-duddy,” Mia reproached. The irony that she was his older sibling wasn’t lost on him at that moment. “I’d love to meet her.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” she asked, her voice gentle.

His head was pounding. It was difficult to think under the pressure. He stole another quick glance and saw her standing, putting on her coat. “I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Well, looks like she’s on her way out. Missed our chance, anyway.”

He pursed his lips, feeling embarrassed.

“Or perhaps not?” Mia said while he heard briskly approaching footsteps behind him.

“ _Cullen_?” Neb’s smiling face peered over his shoulder and his embarrassment transitioned into sheer nerves. It was downright pathetic, the effect she had on him in public.

“Neb, fancy meeting you here.”

“I thought that was you. I recognized your hair.” She was as kindly as ever, but he noted the way she wrung her hands and shifted her weight from knee to knee. _Was she nervous, too?_

“That seems to be a trend,” he said, referencing their first time meeting.

Wasting no time, his sister stood up and held out her hand. “I’m Mia. Cullen was just telling me about you!”

What happened next was more of a whirlwind. Neb and Mia shook hands. Neb introduced them both to her companions, a bubbly woman named Josephine with a delightful Antivan accent and the subdued Leliana whose fiery hair practically glowed in the evening lamplight. Leliana studied him as he would have eyed a perpetrator for harboring weapons and he wondered if she had any formal police training.

The next thing he knew, his sister and his music therapist were bonding. Then they were exchanging anecdotes entirely related to the subject of, well, _him_ , then Neb mentioned that she lived nearby and Mia mentioned that this was her first time in Haven. _Then_ Neb extended an invitation for the two of them to join her and her friends for an evening at her place and _of course_ Mia accepted because it was against her very being to leave anything well enough alone.

"Are you all right, Cullen?" asked Neb. "You seem a little uncomfortable."

"I--no! No, not uncomfortable at all!" Andraste preserve him, could he talk to her outside of a session without turning into a blubbering mess?

"Oh…okay then," she said, speeding ahead of him.

The five of them walked eight or nine blocks toward her apartment in the crisp autumn air and he had to admit, he reveled in the cooler weather. The frigid bite that accompanied each breath filled him with a renewed vitality. The changing seasons was one of the things he missed when he lived in Kirkwall. Up ahead, he could practically hear Josephine’s teeth chatter. “It’s nights like these when I truly wish I was back in Antiva!”

“Neb seems nice,” Mia said as they walked behind the rest of the group.

“Of course she’s nice. It’s her job to be nice.” His head was still pounding, slowly creeping from the base of his skull to his temples and he was feeling particularly defensive after having been thrust into a situation he wasn't sure he was ready to be in. What he and Neb had during sessions was good. He didn't want that tampered with at the hands of his meddling sister.

“No need to get defensive, little brother,” she smirked. "I'm just saying, she's an easy person to like."

The path was familiar enough from his early morning runs. They walked past the corner where they’d rather unceremoniously collided and onto the upper floor of a charming cottage-style brick structure, complete with a pathway lined with hedges.

“Welcome,” she said, turning the key and opening the door.

Neb’s home befitted her inviting persona. It was small and a tad overheated, but unmistakably _her_. One wall was lined top to bottom with books on shelves, another with films and music. A stack of albums as high as a small child rested on the hardwood floor next to a record player, including a vast collection of Maryden Halewell. Her sole window was stuffed with potted cacti on the sill, along with the radiator right below it. The tufted sofa resided in the center of the space, and the corner behind the door housed a beautifully polished antique harp. Her kitchen was off to the left, full of bright white cabinets and ceramic bowls filled with soft fruit. Despite its size and décor, Cullen didn’t feel closed-in or overwhelmed. There was an ambiance to the space that communicated a sense of security.

_Safe. You’re safe here._

“I know it’s nothing special, but please make yourselves comfortable. I can take your coats. Josie, can you get the wine from the cupboard?” their hostess said, carrying their cold weather gear down the hallway into her bedroom. A part of him was curious to see the room in which she laid her head, to take in the sights and smells that accompanied her while she slept before his inner monologue commanded him to _cut that thought out right this second_.

When he took a seat on the sofa, he heard and saw nothing yet by the time his back touched the tufted cushion he found himself face-to-face with Neb’s stark white cat, Cole, sitting on the arm as if out of thin air. Cullen heard more than enough about the animal’s supposed heightened intelligence during his sessions, which he interpreted as a polite way of saying “mischievous.” (And he’d witnessed first-hand how much of a burden that kind of intelligence can be.) Cole’s tail slithered to and fro like a fluffy white serpent while his piercing blue eyes seemed to plot a strategic incursion across his lap to the other side of the room.

“I think he remembers you!” Neb said, handing him a glass of red wine and passing along another to Mia.

“Where did you say you were from, Cullen?” Leliana asked, seating herself next to him. Her velvety Orlesian accent didn’t subtract from her intense gaze. Between her and the cat, he felt particularly exposed.

“I was born in a small town near the border called Honnleath. It was destroyed in the Blights.”

 “Truly? I am sorry to hear that. Where is your family now?”

“My siblings all made their home in South Reach.”

“And you have been in Haven all this time?”

Maker, the woman’s eyes were impossible to read. He couldn’t tell if she was asking to make polite conversation or if he was being drilled for information. “No, I spent several years in Kirkwall.”

“…Kirkwall? As a refugee?”

 _Don’t tell her anything else._ “Something like that.”

She was silent for a beat. “I see.”

Suddenly, a discordant strum brought all eyes to Neb’s harp in the corner, where Cole was now brushing his lithe body along the strings. He was sitting right next to him only a moment ago. Cullen realized that he hadn’t heard or even seen the cat’s trajectory. _When did he move?_

“That is a lovely harp, Neb,” Mia commented. “Do you play?”

“Not as often as I like these days. It’s far more difficult to transport a harp to music sessions than a guitar.”

“Josie tells me you’re quite the savant,” Leliana swirled her glass like a seasoned oenophile, holding the wine to the light to examine its viscosity.

“Oh, yes!” said Josephine. “Would you play something for us?”

"All right," and she turned to him. "You don't mind, do you?"

 _Me?_ "No! No. Please, as long as it's not Andraste's Mabari."

He knew the joke was terrible yet she still laughed before walking to the instrument. "I'll do my best to restrain myself."

As she took a seat on her stool a tension built in the air, though he couldn’t quite place where it was coming from. Something in the formality in her posture. The solemnity of her attitude as she positioned herself. The mechanical way in which her delicate hands paused, elegantly, before plucking the first chord.

The headache and moodiness that had been plaguing him all evening was instantly forgotten in favor of the luscious sounds drifting from that harp. After strumming the first few bars, she followed the melody with lyrics. The first note rang out with such vigor that it was as if she borrowed the breath from his own lungs to carry it into the next, for he’d suddenly lost the ability to breathe. There was nothing else. Now there was just _her_.

It was undeniable, the magnetism she emitted when she sang. He’d heard her hum a few bars in their sessions, but never anything like _this._ Her soprano resonated through every bone in his body, filling the entire space with her flawless vibrato. He wanted to look at the others in the room to see if she had the same effect on them, but he couldn’t look anywhere but at her dainty fingers on the strings, her mouth cascading verse after verse with perfect technique.

Cullen’s thoughts shattered and it seemed like standing and walking toward her was all he could do to adhere the broken pieces, as if she summoned him to her side with every string she plucked. She looked up, meeting his eyes and smiling. It was an old Chantry hymn, and one he knew well. He’d sung it many times in his youth, but her rendition reinvigorated it with dazzling arpeggios. The way she performed it inspired him, exhilarated him. He couldn’t think of anything to do in that moment other than sing with her.

…So he did.

His tenor was gruff from years of neglect, but he she slowed for him, helping him find his key. The way her eyes widened and her smiled broadened only encouraged him further. He harmonized while she soared and he met her at an exultant crescendo.

It felt natural, singing with her, as if their voices were crafted for one another’s. While his life had been a constant stream of chaos, uncertainty and solitude, there was _something_ about that moment that was right, that was easy. _She_ made it feel easy. Neb’s gaze was still locked on him when they concluded and their audience – the one he’d forgotten – clapped excitedly.

“Bravo!” cried Josephine.

“Cullen!” Neb exclaimed. “I didn’t know you sang!” He knew she wasn’t condescending. While he was never one for validation, Maker, she said it with such sincerity he felt an unusual thrill bubble up inside.

“He was quite the little songbird back in his choir boy days,” his sister said. Normally Cullen would have thrown her a glare, but all he wanted to do was keep staring at the woman before him.

"That's fantastic! I sang in a choir, too! I later fell in love with the concept of group singing as a way to build trust and cooperation. On Sunday mornings, I host a free group therapy session at the Chantry on Sixth."

"Very interesting. Cullen, your music therapist has quite the repertoire. Cullen?"

He realized he was still staring.

* * *

After saying their goodbyes, Neb was kind enough to call a cab service to take them back downtown. Their driver was a young elven woman around Rosalie's age with choppy blond hair and a tattered red leather coat.

"There's you, yeah? 'S freezin' out, so get in unless you want some icy bits!"

Mia sat next to him in silence, watching the streetlamps zip by as their driver sped them to her hotel.

Finally, she spoke. "She's really pretty, you know."

"Who?"

"Who else? Neb. She's really pretty."

The tips of his ears flushed. "Well then, tell _her_ that, not me."

"Right." More silence. "Why don't you come visit me next time?"

"What?"

"Stay with me on the farm. We'll go visit mom and dad and I'll feed you something that doesn't come in a powder. What do you think?"

Their parents had long passed, but he knew she was talking about visiting their ashes. It had been such a long time since he was outside of a city. Even a few weeks ago, he would have turned her down, but after tonight he felt a little more confident, a little more assured.

"That's…not a bad idea. I'll think about it."

"Oi! First stop! Who's gettin' out?"

Mia opened the door after handing their driver some cash. "I hope you'll take me up on it. Don't forget to take your meds before bed," she said before closing the car door.

Cullen didn't dream that night. He watched the city lights twinkle from his wall-encompassing windows - the closest thing the city had to stars, he supposed - while humming the Chantry hymn he'd sung with Neb. The memory of her smooth voice and soothing harp enriched him with a sense of peace he hadn't felt in years.

Neb was right for a third time. One should never discredit the healing power of music. What he wanted now was more of it, whatever _it_ was. And then he remembered:

 _Sunday morning. Group session. Chantry on Sixth_.


	10. Drinking Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Neb is like me and gets really depressed when she drinks by herself. We should both stop doing that.

_“I will love you. When Sylaise burns the trees to dust, I will love you. When Andruil makes the rivers run red with the blood of our last, I will love you. When Falon’Din guides my soul into the beyond, I will love you. I will_ always _love you.”_

_“But we are of two opposing worlds! We cannot be, my darling. Go back to your clan, find happiness, and…forget me.”_

_“Forget you? Can the moon forget the sun when she departs? No, her brilliance lingers with him through the night. I am now but your reflection. You have consumed me, body and spirit. To forget you would be to forget myself. I am yours. Forever.”_

“Oh, Maker’s breath, just kiss her already!” Neb groaned. It was Saturday night and she was sprawled on her sofa with Cole on her stomach. The cat purred contentedly while she lazily rubbed her thumb back and forth across his downy head. It felt like ages since she last watched _The Girl from Red Crossing_ , an award-winning film from her youth about the tragic love story of Adalene and Elandrin, a human villager and an elven knight. So the story goes, their untimely deaths at the hands of each other’s kin resulted in the Exalted March on the Dales. The script was trite and its casting of a human to play the lead role of Elandrin was downright deplorable by today’s standards, yet there was something to be said about the power of nostalgia. Neb was immediately transported to her carefree days on her parents’ tattered Rivaini rug, humming along to every heartbreaking ballad while her six siblings ran amok outside:

_I've dreamed of the kiss I stole 'neath the arbor._

_I've dreamed of the promise 'neath the old ash tree._

_O, I know she is there, daisies in her hair,_

_Waiting by the chantry to marry me._

There was also the fact that Elandrin’s very historically inaccurate, _very_ shirtless Emerald Knight armor sparked her sexual awakening which, with the two bottles of wine coursing through her, made it a little easier to endure the film’s racist tones. As far as she was concerned, Elandrin was her longest running relationship. Of course, she didn’t have Adalene’s petite willowy frame or silken red hair, but that didn’t stop her from dreaming of his taut physique rolling on top of her in a lush meadow and feeling every one of his defined muscles flex under his skin while he ravaged her completely. Those dreams got her through many lonely nights, and tonight was probably no exception.

While Neb was growing accustomed to life as Josephine and Leliana’s third wheel, the position was, naturally, on the lower end of part-time. They were even gracious enough to extend invitations to private gallery showings and dance club V.I.P. rooms, but Neb politely turned them down. The two of them needed their space, and she was happy for her best friend. Besides, she was an introvert and a homebody to begin with. As a show of independence, she even carried on with their Saturday “Booze and Bardflix” rituals.

…Alone. Andraste, she was in her thirties, alone, with a cat as her drinking buddy. She was in her thirties, alone, with a cat as her drinking buddy, hadn’t had sex in _years_ and now she’d gone and made herself depressed.

_“You are never alone, not truly. As you lay awake at night, know that a humble man yearns for you; that your name is exulted to the heavens on his every breath.”_

Neb drew her attention back to the film in time to see Elandrin cup Adalene’s cheek as if she were something infinitely fragile and precious, and decided that their saccharine love song didn’t quite synchronize with her mood.

“So much for nostalgia,” she grumbled as she turned off the film and switched on the national news. Journalists were relaying gloomy reports about the remaining costs of Ferelden’s recovery since the Blights, deemed to be the costliest annex in history, and making dire reports about the future of the country’s economic integrity. _This_ wasn’t much better.

She flopped on her side more aggressively than she should have which caused Cole to tumble off the warmth of her belly and onto the chilly floorboards. Instead of protesting, he merely shook himself off and sauntered to the window with his tail in the air as if he meant to fall all along.

The story shifted to a grim death toll caused by an influx of gang-related violence in Kirkwall, which made her think of Cullen. After several weeks of sessions, she still knew little about his history in the city and often wondered if it was the source of his anxiety, but she would never pry. As one of her clients, it was his decision to self-disclose. The music always helped them open up to her in the end, though. Her lingering curiosity would have to hold for a little longer.

Last night was much farther than she would have gone with any of her other clients. She, Josephine and Leliana stopped for dinner at an unassuming pasta restaurant that boasted family-style portions and a decent wine selection. She didn’t expect to see a familiar nest of blonde hair on the other side of the room. She stayed quiet, listening to Leliana retell an engaging tale about the history of Haven that she’d uncovered through her work for the city government and occasionally glanced a peek at him. It _had_ to be him. She’d spent enough time with him to recognize his stern posture, the way the seams on his _perfectly_ tailored shirts amplified his _perfectly_ sculpted shoulders--

 _No, none of that now,_ she reminded herself. _That ship sank when you blew it. He’s only interested in being your client._ Then there was that other intrusive thought that loved to wiggle its way in: _He was out of your league to begin with._

He sat across the table from a woman, small and slender with youthful cropped hair. Certainly more his type, but by their body language and striking resemblance Neb was positive they were related. If so, she was a link to his mysterious past. The compulsion to introduce herself grew stronger and by the time she tied the belt of her trench coat she’d already made the decision to greet them.

“Where are you going?” asked Josephine.

“I’ll be a minute. I just…I think that’s someone I know.”

Josephine’s grey eyes panned the room until she saw him, having recognized him from the photo Neb sent. She was adept at concealing her emotions in the court room, but the glance she gave her then was clear: _I hope you know what you’re doing._

Truth be told, she didn’t. She didn’t know what she was doing. She was only offering a friendly hello, wasn’t she? Then why did a humble greeting feel so illicit? If he was a mere client, why were her legs as wobbly as a fawn’s? And _why_ did she invite him and his sister to her home?

"Neb, I know I could be guilty of pressuring you in the past, but this isn't healthy. He's your patient," Josephine said while they walked ahead and away from the restaurant.

" _Client_. I'm not a psychotherapist. Besides, his sister is in town; I'm being friendly!"

"You are being masochistic," Leliana chimed in.

"I'm _not_. Am I?"

"Even if it isn't obvious to you, it's most certainly obvious to him. If it's not, then he is stupid, and unworthy of your time."

She chose not to listen. It wasn't until she ushered Cullen and his sister out to their cab when she realized she might have been over her head.

It was silly, thinking that some tarot card reading would result in anything between the two of them, that he would even be interested in asking someone like her for a second chance. She wondered how she must have looked when he asked to work with her; if she really _was_ as transparent as Leliana said. Of course she was crestfallen, but she couldn't turn him down.

Still, she was only human. It was difficult maintaining her calm social façade in the familiarity of their sessions, helping him position his long fingers on the proper guitar chords and the small smile he gave when she praised his progress. He was a model student, and they worked well together. They _sang_ well together. Blessed Andraste, singing with him was one of the most invigorating experiences of her life. She'll never forget the way his brusque voice was hesitant at first but then melded flawlessly with hers. It was intimate but also inspiring. For Cullen to show such bravado demonstrated a considerable leap forward in recovery, which, she prayed, reflected well on her teaching. _That_ was something that she could hold onto.

Perhaps the Maker had other plans for her, and it's possible that none of them involved intimacy or _love_ , especially with someone like him.

While she didn't know the reason, it was evident that the world had worn away at Cullen's soul. As long as he was her client she would use her music to remind him that he had one. If she couldn't quell her feelings, she'd responsibly recuse herself. So for now, it was best to sober up, prepare for her Chantry session in the morning, get into bed and hopefully banish any shameful visions of risque armor and lush meadows.

After all, he was Elandrin, but she was by no means Adalene.


	11. Acoustics

Her radio alarm clock started singing at 6:30 and Neb rolled over to turn it off without making much of an effort to rise. She watched the crimson minutes shift to 6:31 and appraised the state of her room: there was a bra flung over her side table lamp and a trail of leggings, fuzzy socks, underthings, a white tee and her university sweatshirt heading from the doorway to the foot of the bed. She was still reeling from last night’s episode of “Booze and Bardflix” that had transfigured into “Drinks and Depression.”

She flopped onto her back again, lifting her tank top so she could run her hands across her naked stomach. There was a brief moment upon waking where, after eight hours of fasting and dehydration, it lay just a little flatter and her hip bones were just a little more pronounced. It wasn’t a healthy habit, she knew it, but a small part of her reveled in feeling slightly thinner. It was safe, under the sheets where she could pretend there were no pale stretch marks spanning her breasts and inner thighs, no dimpled flesh that puckered over ill-fitting jeans. If only for a morning.

Especially this morning, where some lingering nausea from drinking too much the night before left her feeling particularly morose. Truth be told, Neb was _not_ a morning person. Years of long nights in school and as a social worker conditioned her to thrive in quiet blackness. She was tempted to cancel her Chantry session and sleep until noon until she heard a familiar mew across from her. She sat up and saw Cole perched on her dresser looking marmoreal, with eyes shimmering like blue topaz in the pink of dawn. He needed to be fed, and he communicated this fact to her in the subtlest way possible: by swiping his paw through her glass bottles of essential oils so they plummeted into her open purse and onto the hardwood with a loud ting.

“Thanks, kitty. Very mature,” she said while rubbing the sleep from her eyes. He responded with a more insistent _mrow_.

“Fine, fine. I’m up. You win,” she grumbled and rose from her cozy bed. She picked up the scattered clothes and bottles on her way to him and tried to suppress her dizziness before putting everything back in its place. Passing her mirror, she saw a nest of tangled hair, the smeared remnants of yesterday’s mascara and the blue-purple under eyes of a poor night’s sleep. Maker, she looked dreadful. Even the portrait of Andraste on the wall looked ashamed to be seen in the same room as her. For a moment she was almost thankful she had nobody to wake up next to, though she still needed to quit drinking alone.

Petting Cole, she started to feel a little better. He approached the edge of the dresser and outstretched a paw; a sign that he wanted to be held, so Neb scooped him up in her arms like a newborn as she usually did and carried him with her into the kitchen to get him some food.

With the cat tended to, she bathed her remaining sadness away in the shower while doing what she frequently did when she felt downtrodden: sing. She warmed up her vocals with some scales and arpeggios before crooning one of her favorite contemporary mariner songs about an aged sea captain and her beloved ship, the Siren’s Call. While her apartment was small and stuffy, she had to admit that her bathroom had marvelous acoustics. In fact, it’s one of the reasons she settled on the place.

She’d received her Master’s and was a newly appointed certified musical therapist at Resounding Joys and had deemed it time to finally move off of Josephine’s couch and into her own space again.

* * *

_“It’s certainly…quaint,” said Josephine, who stopped to inspect the chipped paint around the cracked wooden doorframe. “And barely enough room for a harp.”_

_“It’s not_ that _tiny. Of course it’s not the Winter Palace, but look at this cute little kitchen!” Neb opened and closed every white cupboard with glee, excited to finally unpack all of her dishes after they’d spent years in storage. “Look, there’s a little shopping center not far from here. You can see it just outside.” She fought with the window, which insisted on remaining closed before snapping open with a rusty squeak. “Cole would like sitting on the radiator here.”_

_“That cat would never agree to spend so much time out in the open. He’d much prefer a dark corner where he could plot Maker-knows-what.”_

_“After all these years my cat still gives you the chills?”_

_“It’s his_ lurking _!”_

_Neb laughed, feeling reassured that it was most definitely time for her and her four-legged friend to move out. She paraded the narrow hallway to look over the bedroom and deemed it spacious enough for all of her furniture before completing her tour in the bathroom. The claw foot tub held plenty of appeal, as did the original floor tiling. The faucets summoned an appropriate stream of water. There was only one more thing she needed to evaluate._

_“’Three little empresses, which of them is true? A simple glass of almond tea and now there's only two. Two little empresses, which will be undone? A dagger from beneath a cloak and now there's only one!’” she sang._

_“What are you doing?” Josephine peered her head around the corner._

_“Shhh, hear that? Oh, that’s nice. Listen to how it reverberates off the walls! ‘One little empress child, reaping what was sown. Only she knows which she was, and now she's on the throne!’”_

_“I…suppose.”_

_“It’s perfect. I’ll take it.”_

_“You haven’t even looked at another place!”_

_“Don’t need to.”_

_“Well then,” her friend sighed. “I had been saving this for when you decided on your apartment.” Josephine reached into her flawless leather handbag to reveal a small present wrapped in brown parchment and twine. “Here.”_

_Neb took the package reverently. While the gesture wasn’t entirely unexpected given her friend’s track record of unparalleled generosity, the act symbolized a new phase in both of their lives. They were adjusting to life in a new city, but no longer as roommates._

_“Josie, you didn’t have to-“_

_“No, no, it’s nothing, really. Do open it, please!”_

_She pulled at the bow and peeled apart the tape with a fingernail so the parchment came undone. It was a picture frame adorned with elaborate scrollwork and a scalloped edge, and within the frame was an impeccably detailed painting of Andraste. The artist had a skilled hand and a contemporary style, using vibrant shades of red and gold that paired nicely with the Bride’s brown skin and billowing, inky black hair – a refreshing interpretation of her traditional flaxen locks._

_“It’s beautiful! I love it.” She hugged her. “Thank you.”_

_“Don’t thank me. Look at the signature.”_

_Squinting, she saw the initials: Y.M._

_“Yvette? Your sister painted this?”_

_“A Montilyet original! Her collection this semester explores religious idolatry. She’s already received offers from local galleries in Antiva City, but I managed to snag a piece early. Being a sibling and educational benefactor has its perks, after all.”_

_“Your family must be proud.”_

_“We are simply praying that she commits to her craft for a while before inevitably changing her mind again.”_

_“I know just where to put it,” Neb said, dashing around the corner and back into her future bedroom. She aligned it next to the door and above her light switch. “She’ll go right here.” The two stood at the doorway admired Yvette’s work._

_“Welcome home,” said Josie._

* * *

Freshly washed and feeling rejuvenated, Neb donned her maroon pants and a cream colored sweatshirt that was covered in a print of white cats that looked like chubbier, fluffier versions of Cole. Typically, she’d also need to pack up her equipment into her car, but the Chantry provided instruments in its music room which meant that she need only bring herself and her bus pass. The cat met her by the door when she prepared to leave, so she strategically maneuvered herself outside while keeping the door closed as much as possible out of fear that he’d try to run away again.

“Bye, kitty. Don’t knock over anything else while I’m gone.”

“Mrow.”

She stepped outside to a cool wind and overcast sky. Meteorologists predicted today’s first snowfall, and Neb was hoping that their prediction wouldn’t disappoint. She thrived in cold weather. The brisk air invigorated her from the inside out and she took pride in being able to withstand even the harshest winter. There was also something youthfully exuberant about having rosy, cold-kissed cheeks that was utterly delightful.

The Chantry was a mere ten minutes by bus, nestled between a delicatessen and a dry cleaner on an unassuming street near the city limits. The stonemasonry was equally inconspicuous, but it had a rather glamorous golden sunburst on its steeple that was breathtaking in the sunlight, like a glimmering promise of salvation. The Chantry’s music room boasted blaring fluorescent lighting and tattered red carpet on which Neb found her group already seated.

“Good morning, everyone!” she announced her entry with a smile. While her music lessons were free of cost to the general public regardless of faith affiliation, her groups were always modest. Today, there were only four.

There was Rani, a widowed schoolteacher from Dairsmuid who was looking for an outlet for her grief and a thirty-something hippie chick named Clara, though she insisted everyone call her Sunflower. Next to her sat Sera, a university drop-out who was attending these sessions as part of a government mandated anger management program after she reportedly trashed the Dean’s office in protest over a decrease in financial aid for low-income students. The elf was blessed with beautiful tone and vocal control, though she still insisted that singing was for “stupids.” Then there was Thom, a war veteran and fellow Marcher who matched Sera’s boundless energy with his own dry, exhausted wit. They mumbled their own greetings while Neb used a key to unlock the instrument cabinet.

“Now, each of you can grab a guitar and we can get started. You all did really well with your chords last week, so today I think we’ll…”

Neb was interrupted by the click of the door opening behind her, and spun around to see a very familiar head of coiffed, wavy blond hair. Seeing him again so soon made her feel positively dumbstruck.

“Cullen?”

“I…” He looked down and nervously rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh—you said you volunteered, and so—I mean, so I thought I’d—“ He cleared his throat.

She wasn’t prepared for this. It felt like her heart was ready to crawl out of her throat. She didn’t quite know what to say at the moment, so it was Sera who broke the silence.

“Oi! I know you, yeah? Gave you a lift two days ago? You ever get off with that pretty lil bird?”


	12. First Snowfall

_What if this was a mistake?_

Cullen felt awkward, shifting his stance in utter silence as Neb, his cab driver from two nights ago and three other strangers gawked. He shouldn’t have barged in so loudly.

“Hello again,” was all he could think to say.

“Hi,” Neb said, eyes wide like a startled doe. He’d overstepped, he felt it. Cullen was never good at being impulsive. Then again, who _was_? It wasn’t a muscle he could exercise or a skill he could hone. It was a plunge into the unknown, so there was nothing to do but take a breath, leap and let the earth release him from its embrace.

“I’m terribly sorry for intruding,” he started over, more confident this time, “You had mentioned that you taught a group session on Sundays at the Chantry on Sixth, and frankly, I…”

“Get on with it, weirdy!” the cab driver shouted.

“Sera!” Neb gently shushed her student. “Go on, Cullen.”

He swallowed to quench his arid throat. “…I was wondering—if you wouldn’t mind, that is—if I could…help.”

Shock shifted to delight on her face. “You want to volunteer with me?”

“I…yes—if you’re interested. _I’m_ …interested.”

“Well, this is a surprise—but a good surprise, Cullen! This is still a relatively new group and we’re still working our way up to playing a full song together. It just so happens that we were going to practice our strumming technique today and I could use an extra pair of hands.”

She addressed the group in a winsome sweatshirt covered in a kitten print, similar to her her guitar strap, and Cullen only found it endearing. Like her apartment, her style was a blend of quaint and kitsch.

“Everyone,” she said, “Cullen is a client of mine at the music therapy center where I work. He’s going to join us today so let’s give him a warm welcome.”

He made sure to memorize everyone’s names as they were introduced. The group murmured a greeting.

“He was a novice just as you all are, but in less than three months he’s developed a solid strumming technique. Let that be a lesson to you that with practice and dedication, _anyone_ can learn to play this instrument and incorporate it into their self-care routine.”

He hadn’t felt this particular blend of nerves and excitement since he’d graduated from police training. It was as if he’d swallowed a giant fish that wriggled and thrashed inside of him. Neb showered him with more praise than any of his senior officers would ever even consider granting, however.

“I have a question,” the woman named Sunflower raised her hand. “Do the tuning pegs contain lead? Because I’ve really been trying to cleanse my body and I don’t want any impurities to, like, impact my health.”

_Maker’s breath, she sounds like my sister._

“I promise, your guitar is an instrument of healing, not harm,” Neb reassured.

“May we get started?” Rani asked. “The weather report predicted snowfall and I would like to be on the road before too long.”

“Yes, yes, we can get started. Cullen?”

“Hm?”

“I’m going to split our group into two while we practice. You take Thom and Sera. Is that all right?”

“Of course. Wait, what song are we learning?”

She smirked. “One you’re already quite familiar with.”

“… _Andraste’s Mabari_?”

“ _Andraste’s Mabari_ ,” she nodded. “You picked a decent day to volunteer, dog man.”

They agreed to reconvene in half an hour, so Cullen pulled up a chair to face Thom, who sat back with his arms folded and Sera, who gave him a reproachful look. He took a deep breath. _You can do this. You head the department of Training and Development at Skyhold Tower._

“Right. So…let’s get started.”

Cullen settled the guitar strap over his shoulders and got his fingers into position. “To strum, you need to place your pick against the inside of your thumb and curl your fingers gently like so,” he waited until the two of them to get their hands into position. “Then, if you’re playing a G chord—which we are—you do a down stroke…and then an up stroke. That’s it, nice and fluid.”

Thom already had found rhythm, strumming with ease. His brow furrowed in concentration, as if he was summoning the ability from memory yet trying to suppress another one. “You seem to know what you’re doing,” Cullen said.

“I’ve had my share of practice once upon a time, but Fuzzhead over here could use some work.”

“Oi! Watch yourself, Beardy!”

“Or what? You’ll trash my office too? The one I don’t have?” Thom grinned and Sera reciprocated. It was clear that this type of banter was commonplace between them.

“I’ll think of something good, yeah? Like fill up your car with bees!”

“And where would you get enough bees to fill my car, exactly?”

She scoffed. “From… _places_. Like your arse!”

“Sera, would you like me to show you how to strum the guitar?” Cullen asked, trying to get her back in the moment.

“Pffft, don’t need you to.”

“So you think you can manage on your own?”

“Always do.”

“Show me, then.”

“Last time a bloke asked me to show him something he wound up with a boot to the teeth.” She smirked. He knew she was being insolent in an attempt to get under his skin. From what little he could make of her, he knew that being difficult gave her a sense of agency. In a way, she reminded him of someone on his squad back in Kirkwall. Samson thrived on outrage; on _being_ outraged. So did Cullen, after their lives changed.

“You know,” he leaned toward her, “I understand that you’re angry. I was angry once too, but I promise you, if you can’t direct that anger into something constructive it will eat you alive.”

“Oh yeah? What, you think you know everything?”

“I know _this_. Trust me, all right? You’re here for a reason, I can tell. I’ve met many like you in my time.”

“Whassat supposed to mean?” The elf narrowed her grey-hazel eyes and Cullen realized what she inferred.

“I mean people who feel lost. And until recently I was one myself. I admit, I wasn’t always understanding. It took something…someone…to open my eyes.”

“How’s everything going over there, Cullen?” Neb shouted.

“Erm, fine!” he called back, reaching up to rub his neck. When he turned back, Sera’s eyes widened. _Oh no. She knows._

“It’s _her?!_ _She’s_ the bird? That’s why you’re here, innit?”

“Will you keep your voice down?” he whispered.

“Ohohohoho, this is bloody brilliant! You want her to give you a little down stroke of her own, do you?” Cullen felt his face flush as she made a rude gesture.

“I-It’s not like that. Well, we dated once— _before_ she was my music therapist, but I was foolish and…and _why_ am I telling you this?”

“Dunno. I just got one of them faces,” Sera shrugged. “She _is_ a pretty one. Nice arse. Clearly not got off in a while if she’d date a stuffed shirt like you.”

“Maker, can we please just focus on the lesson again?”

“All right, all right,” she said, smug. She finally held her instrument in position and played a G chord. “So it’s a _down stroke_ …oh yeah, you like that Mr. Stuffed Shirt?”

“Sera, stop—I mean, actually yes, that’s very good—just…just don’t look at me like that and keep strumming. You know, you’re quite decent at this.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“Only if you promise to keep at it.”

He picked up his own guitar and together he, Sera and Thom spent the next few minutes keeping a steady rhythm while changing chords. If Cullen wasn’t mistaken, Sera even seemed to be enjoying the practice with a soft smile until Neb spoke up. Cullen felt more confident, seeing how far he’d come in his own experience.

“Okay, let’s get the group back together!” Neb said, asking the group to rearrange their chairs in a circle. “It’s time to get some song therapy in us. You know, with every strum, you stimulate your left frontal cortex and your cerebral cortex. As that song filters through your ear drums it works your cerebellum, your temporal lobe; every lyric challenges your visual cortex, your motor cortex and the area known as Broca’s. That vibration of each note is boosting serotonin levels in your brain through alpha waves which triggers an emotional response. That’s not all: music has been shown to enhance creativity, language skills, happiness; improve memory, optimism and mood. Music is serious brain fuel, people, so fill up before you head out.”

“It’s quite motivating when she gets like this,” Thom murmured, leaning in. “Have you ever seen anyone love their job more than her?”

Cullen recalled Chief Stannard, a woman he had once thought of fondly and considered a personal inspiration. He always interpreted her coldness and ruthlessness the epitome of professionalism. When she spoke, she pitched logic, not emotion and he was thrilled to respond in kind. He spent years realizing how wrong she was. A true professional projects passion and heart. It was impossible to imagine that were he that same man, Neb’s energy and emotion would have had no effect.

“No,” he said to Thom. “No, I haven’t.”

In his peripheral, he saw Sera smirking at him.

* * *

“I think that’s all the time we have. Thank you for coming everyone. Enjoy the rest of your Sunday!” Neb reopened the instrument cabinet and began storing each piece, taking time to space them evenly, while the group exited the room mumbling goodbyes. Before the door crashed shut they heard Sera bellow about the weather.

“It’s friggin’ snowing! Shit-piss, I had things to _do_!”

“Well, shall we go see for ourselves?” He buttoned his pea coat and Neb tied the sash on her trench.

“Sure,” she smiled. “We’re done here. I took the bus this morning, but if it’s snowing I might walk home.”

True to Sera’s words, when they exited the Chantry they found the city coated in a milky haze of fog and falling snow. It wasn’t cold enough for an icy flurry, and so the flakes fell from the sky in heavy clusters, weighing down tree branches and coating Cullen’s hair in chilly, white fluff. Snow carried a particular scent with it: clean, crisp and refreshing, not muddy like summer rain. It always reminded him of his parents’ farm in Honnleath; of ice skating excursions and snow forts; of reddened cheeks that signaled it was time to go inside. A wet snowflake bit at his cheek and he reveled how invigorated he was by the icy sting of winter. Kirkwall’s coastal winds and unchanging seasons could never compare to the tranquil silence of a winter’s night.

“First snowfall!” Neb exclaimed. “I love it when it gets like this.”

He turned to see her gleeful expression and blessed Andraste, she was adorable. Her arms were outstretched and fluffy flakes fluttered around her as if embracing her in welcome. Neb was so much better about expressing her gratitude than he was.

“You aren’t cold?” he asked.

“Oh no, I always joke that I can think myself warm. Between you and me, I can take or leave the heat, but winter is…magical.”

“That’s something we have in common. I quite like the calm.” There was only and intimate silence around them, and Cullen was finding it difficult to pull himself away. He knew the appropriate action would be to wish her well and walk off in the opposite direction, but as she started a steady pace toward her apartment, he followed at her side.

“Are you going this way? I thought you lived downtown?”

“I have some business in this direction.” _No, I don’t. I just wanted more time and Maker, what am I doing?_

After a while they crossed a bridge overlooking Lake Haven, an area where he often finished his morning run. It was nearly impossible to make out the dark watery mass in the winter mist, but Neb still stopped, gripping her mittens over the rail.

“Thank you,” she said, “for volunteering today. It was nice. I hope you got something out of it.”

“I did,” he joined her at the rail. “You know, when I was an officer, I was truly convinced that I was doing good; that I was helping people; that I was doing the Maker’s work and giving my family something to be proud of.”

“You don’t feel that way anymore?”

“It’s complicated,” he said, downcast. “But lately I’ve come to see the world differently. To see my life differently. Maker, I’m not good with words. What I’m trying to say is: what _you_ do? That’s helping people.”

She smiled, humble. It was hard to note if her cheeks were flushed from the cold or from his words. “What spawned the change?”

 _You did._ “…It’s complicated.”

“Well, Cullen, as your music therapist I think it’s safe to say that you’ve come a long way. Don’t ever sell your efforts short.” She paused. “You handled yourself really well today. Even Sera seemed to enjoy being there. Would you be interested in volunteering again sometime?”

“Really? I mean, yes. I would like that,” Cullen beamed. He hadn’t felt so excited for something in a long while.

“Then let me give you my cell phone number so I know when you’re planning to be there. Hand me your phone.”

The thought of Neb’s number in his phone made his heart race. He fumbled in getting it out of his pocket and nearly dropped it before handing it to her. Neb greedily snatched the tool from him.

“You have a Drakon T7! Oh, Maker, I’d sell my cat for one of these—don’t tell him I said that.” She pressed the power button and raised her eyebrows. “…And you still have the default manufacturer’s wallpaper?”

“I don’t…know how to change it,” he mumbled. _And I don’t have anything to change it to._ Cullen wouldn’t consider himself a technical adept. He mastered the basics: email, spreadsheet software, sending a text, making copies. Anything else that didn’t serve a purpose wasn’t something with which he occupied his time. He only bought the phone because the persistent sales clerk appealed to his pragmatism. It _was_ the best, ergo it made sense to _buy_ the best. And, with the salary Varric paid him, he could afford it.

“Oh, Cullen, what a waste of the highest quality camera on the market. Here, let me show you.” She leaned into him and aimed the front-facing camera at them both, angling it so their faces were framed in the center. She was so close he could smell the sweetness of her shampoo. There was something familiar about it, but he couldn’t place it.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re taking a selfie celebrating the first snowfall. Smile!” _Click_. “There, now you just hit _Save_ and…”

They were interrupted by the sound of slowing wheels and the unmistakable whir of an automatic car window rolling down.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise: the woman who rescued my brother and my devoted desk monkey. Out for a walk in the middle of a snow storm. For no particular reason, I’m sure.”

Anyone within earshot would instantly recognize Varric’s graveled voice, but it was Neb who spoke first.

“Hello, Mr. Tethras!” she waved.

“I told you how many times now, kiddo, call me Varric.” He turned to Cullen. “Not you though, Curly. I don’t pay you enough to be on a first name basis. So, what brings the two of you together on this fine Sunday afternoon? _Alone_?”

The dwarf winked and Cullen rubbed the back of his neck.


	13. The Brothers Tethras

Varric smiled, waiting. He tapped a well-groomed finger against Bianca's open window and Neb couldn't help but note how the car still shined miraculously in the falling snow, looking as polished as her owner with a form as substantial as his avid curiosity. He gave Neb the same smirk before, months ago, after she told him that her date with Cullen didn't pan out.  

 _The story isn't over. That's what he's thinking._ Bartrand said that. He wasn’t wrong, she supposed. Cullen was still a part of her life--in a different way. He had shifted several inches from her and now stood at attention in the presence of his boss.  

"We just happen to be walking in the same direction," she answered. 

"Ah, and I suppose it's customary to take a selfie with someone you just _happened_ upon, and whatever other weird shit you humans do in your spare time." 

She laughed, nervous. "Oh, that was just…we were celebrating the first snowfall." 

" _Sure_ , _sure_ ," he nodded, still smiling as if he was in on a joke. "This bit of unpleasantness is supposed to continue for some time. Why don't I give you a ride the rest of the way?" 

"Oh, I think we'll be--" 

He tsked. "Now, now, Kiddo, you know not to argue with me--you won't win. Besides, Bianca doesn't offer rides to just _anybody_. Hop in. C'mon, Curly, you too." 

Neb looked at Cullen who looked directly at Varric. She could tell he was on edge. It was in the way his body tensed on locked knees. He'd shown the same signs in her sessions after a particularly rough sleep the night before. Perhaps he was caught off-guard or didn't expect to run into his employer on a Sunday. Perhaps he was simply showing respect to his superior--an order-bound officer to the very end. 

 _Perhaps he just doesn't want to be seen alone with someone like you_ , that intrusive thought hissed. Like a viper, its bite was sudden, painful and had already done critical damage by the time it slithered away. But then Cullen just looked at her, shrugged and opened the car door and the subtext was clear: _I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting this._  

Of course. _That’s the perfectly sensible reaction_ , _Miss Don’t-You-Feel-Stupid_. She had no excuse not to climb in after him.  

Snowflakes were tucked within her wavy hair and began to melt in chunky droplets in the dry warmth of Bianca’s cabin. The heated, buttery leather seats were even more comfortable than Leliana’s designer sofa. Odd, she realized, how she’d found herself surrounded by so much wealth lately having not accumulated any of her own. Growing up in a cramped city brownstone full of rusted plumbing, secondhand furniture and _third_ hand clothing, her family always insisted on remaining humble. A strong faith was richer than any amount of material wealth in the Trevelyan household. 

(A strong faith was also free of cost.) 

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Varric pointed at a tray lined with unopened bottles of expensive liquor and wine alongside tonic and club soda. He once went on record stating that he never imbibed, so Neb assumed the bar’s purpose was to impress elite clientele. She and Cullen shook their heads in unison. 

“Suit yourself. It all gets better with age, anyway.” He snapped his fingers to address his driver. “Bran, take the back roads. The highway’s gonna be shit in this weather, and Bianca doesn’t like traffic.” 

“Right away, Mr. Tethras.” 

The car lurched forward and glided over slippery slush—in the opposite direction of her apartment. 

“Varric,” she protested, “you’re taking us downtown.” 

"You catch on quick, Kiddo,” the dwarf winked. “Come over to my place for lunch. Think you could make some time for your patron?” 

Neb was already seat belted into his luxury vehicle—she couldn’t necessarily refuse at this point. “I suppose I didn’t have anything else planned…” 

“Perfect! And Curly, I know you don’t have something going on. You’re too busy thinking about what you’ll do when you get back to work, so don’t even try to get out of it.” Cullen opened his mouth like he was about to protest but leaned back into his seat in compliance. It only confirmed that he really wasn't one to reject authority. 

One silent but—thank the Maker—short drive later, they were escorted to Varric’s private elevator and up toward his penthouse suite. Anyone who had access to pop culture blogs had seen glamorous photo tours of the space with its richly dark cherry wood paneled walls and even darker leather furniture. It wasn’t a home that merely mumbled masculinity, but rather shouted it. Every book Varric’s publishing house had ever put out rested on chunky inset bookshelves on either side of the fireplace, and in between them hung a taxidermy druffalo head overlooking the sunken dining area with glassy eyes. 

According to an exclusive interview in _Madame de Fer_ magazine, the tycoon's décor was inspired by a crusty dive bar in Kirkwall where he frequented before finding his fortune.  

"It was a real kill or be killed joint, but there was something about it that just felt like home," he said. The alleged dive bar remains a mystery to this day. Neb was tempted to ask Cullen if he knew anything about it, but something about his solemnity told her that he wasn't one to take an interest in frivolous gossip.  

“Take a seat, grab some grub,” their host said. A white ceramic soup tureen steamed next to bowls of fruit and a tiered tray of assorted sandwiches. How all of it was prepared and the table set all before they’d arrived on little notice was impressive, if not a little daunting.  

She noted with a flood of sadness that there were only three place settings. “Is Bartrand joining us? I’d love to see him.” 

“Afraid not, Kiddo. My brother prefers to hole up in his room whether or not we have people over.” 

Just then, they heard the loud creak of a door opening followed by the soft patter of bare feet on hardwood. Bartrand stepped around the corner, his icy blue eyes scanned her and Cullen and then landed on Varric. 

"Hi Bartrand, how are you feeling?" Neb asked. It was the first time she'd ever seen him outside of Resounding Joys, but he didn't respond. 

"You don't have to force the next chapter," he said, stern. "You can see it's already writing itself." 

"Bartrand! Glad you could join us. Want a sandwich?" 

He narrowed his eyes but kept them locked on his brother while he plucked a vibrant orange from the bowl, turned, and sauntered back down the hallway groaning and muttering to himself. Varric waited until they heard the door clack shut before speaking. 

"Well, shit—that was new. He usually never comes out." 

Cullen looked tempted to ask about the nature of Bartrand's aloofness, but maintained a polite silence. Their host caught his curious expression. 

"I take it you don't know the whole story about my brother, Curly?" 

"I wasn't...I mean, it's not my intention to pry." 

"Bah! You've been one of my lemmings long enough. Besides, our biographies are a copper a dozen on the internet. But first, eat something. All this shit just sitting here makes me anxious." 

Eating in front of strangers wasn't a desirable situation for her, especially in front of someone like Varric, whose wealth was accompanied by a slew of alleged tabloid affairs with slender, luxuriously dressed women. To refuse his hospitality was just as undesirable, so she reached for half of a sandwich from the tiered tray and took a small bite: herb roasted vegetables and goat cheese in a tangy vinaigrette. Cullen reached for the other half of her sandwich and set it on his plate while Varric helped himself to some soup. Picking up a spoon, he ate a bite and sighed in satisfaction before beginning his tale. 

"You know I'm a Kirkwall man initially. My family had a good thing going with their inbound logistics company. Anything from steel to diapers—we imported it over the Waking Sea. When our dad died—now that's another story entirely—he left ownership of the company over to Bartrand. 

After a while, business picked up even more. Bartrand had a knack for negotiating. He brought our company into the big retail business and soon we expanded into a transportation conglomerate. I was the rebel, always looking to get my foot in some new startup industry; always trying to form my own enterprise." He snickered. "Or spending nights in a sleazy bar trying to get someone to read my latest novel. He tried to get me to partner with him but I always turned him down. Eventually, I got lucky, as you probably know. Did pretty well living off royalties. Then I went from being published to publish _ing_ , which worked out well for me. Soon I was the owner of my own printing house, but as the industry declined, I needed a new venture.  

That's what got me into property development but once again, it was because I got lucky. Did a favor for some kid on the street one night—gave him twenty silvers so he could get a cab. Turned out he was some young hot shot working in the hospitality industry who was late for some important meeting and offered me a hotel deal as a token of gratitude.  Now my life was on the up and up, but Bartrand...well." Varric took another sip of soup and grimaced. "Shit, got cold. Anyway, something about him was different. He became flighty, always fidgeting. Showed up late to board meetings, forgot other meetings completely, shit like that. Now, my brother has the memory of an elephant and the eyes of a hawk. He notices everything and he _never_ forgets—not a meeting, not the fact that you took his crush to prom. I knew something was off, and that's when I noticed the smell." 

"Lyrium," Cullen said. She knew that smell, too. Several of her clients in Ostwick had been addicts, and the burning, static odor was a dead giveaway that someone had been recently using. 

"Yeah. I'm sure you've seen more than your fair share of it in your time on the force." He turned to Neb. "Kirkwall had—has—a damned big drug smuggling problem, and Bartrand was caught up in it alongside every lawyer and banker in Hightown. Lyrium, though, that's the hard shit. Messes with your mind, makes you hear and see things. Before long Bartrand had become paranoid and delusional. Then it only got worse." 

"What happened?" Cullen was now leaning over his plate, listening to Varric with rapt attention. 

"One void-ridden smart accountant noticed a pattern: a few missing sovereigns here and there that she couldn't trace. On a hunch, she notified the board. Turned out Bartrand had been embezzling funds into an account in Antiva. I don’t know what the money was used for. The drugs? Was he planning to jump ship? Who can say? He was fired and the board assumed control of all assets. The entire family business was gone, just like that. It was two in the morning when I got the call from the hospital." 

Anyone who can read a news article knows this part: Bartrand was found laying face-down on his bathroom floor having ingested a potent new strain of lyrium that users simply called _red_. The overdose would have killed him if he hadn't been hospitalized in time.  

"He was never the same after that. Now he just... _is_. He breathes, he eats—sometimes—but other than that, the last few years have just been this _silence._  I began to miss the brother who used to nag me. When he wasn't being carted around to psychotherapists or counselors he'd just sit on his bed or stare out his window. Though sometimes I'd hear him start humming, low and off-key. It was the freakiest shit. But hey, music, that was something, right? So to Neb he went. That's our story, and that's how this nice lady ended up with him." He smiled at her and her heart swelled with gratitude. 

"Varric, you know I love Bartrand and it's truly an honor to see him every Friday." 

"It's better than that, Kiddo. Now he at least _talks_. His humming ain't so creepy anymore, either. And hey—he just came out of his room with company over. I'd like to think he's still in there, somewhere, and that the music's bringing him back." 

"Mr. Tethras!" Bran came in carrying a cell phone and a stack of documents. "You're needed on an emergency conference line." 

"Dammit, Bran, can't you see I'm busy?" 

"It’s _urgent_." 

"Fine, fine," he sighed. "I gotta take this in my office. You two stay as long as you like. Bran will drive you home, won't you, Bran?" 

"Of course, Mr. Tethras." 

"While I'm gone, you two can decide what you'll wear to the fundraiser." 

"The fundraiser?" Cullen asked. 

"Oh," she said. "Every winter, Resounding Joys hosts their annual fundraiser. It's a couple of weeks away." 

"You'd know more about it if you had a damned Fadebook account, Curly," Varric chastised. "Nice seeing you, Kiddo." With that, he headed down the hall with Bran on his heels. 

Now it was only the two of them seated side-by-side. He felt closer to her than only moments ago, though there was a pained expression on his face like he was trying to suppress a visceral memory.  

"Are you all right?" she asked when he pinched his nose between his index finger and his thumb. 

"I'm fine, just a sudden headache." 

"I usually have something in my bag, let me check." She lifted her tote off of the floor and began rummaging through loose sunglasses and lip balm to find a small bottle of Felandrisol that she usually carried around with her. Sitting on the floor during group sessions often takes a toll on her lower back. That's when she felt the small glass tincture and pulled it out. It wasn't Felandrisol, but it might help. 

"Huh, wouldn't you know it?" 

"What?" 

"So I make these little bottles of essential oils—I started it in college when I went through this naturopathy phase. They made nice little gifts for people on my grad school budget. Some are topical for facials, some are for aromatherapy. Anyway, my cat decided to knock them all off my dresser this morning and a few of them tumbled into my bag where I must have missed one when I picked them all back up. But you know which one it is? It's the one for _headaches!_ So here, smell this." 

She unscrewed the lid and handed it to him. His warm hands brushed against hers when he took it and their eyes locked. His gaze was intense; contemplative. She felt her cheeks flush as the scent of peppermint, lavender and chamomile filled the space between them. Her heart hammered in her chest and for a moment it was too much. _Just say it: I can't be your music therapist anymore. I got in over my head, it's inappropriate, I wish you the best._  

She was about to blurt out her feelings when he spoke first. 

"Neb..." He wet his lips. "That story. It left me thinking. About myself and my past. My mistakes, my regrets..." Cullen looked away. _Is he ashamed?_   "About who I was. There's something I have to say—something I need you to hear." 

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The tension turned to a static that made her skin tingle. 

"Cullen? What is it?" 

"I want to tell you about what happened in Kirkwall." 

She decided her feelings could wait. 


	14. Kirkwall

"Go on," she encouraged.

Cullen took a sharp inhale. He was trying to bolster up enough courage to speak while compiling his thoughts.

“My career began under the watchful eye of Chief Meredith Stannard. She was…demanding, for starters. She seemed to take a liking to me in the strangest way possible: by assigning me to tackle some of the longest, most grueling assignments in the district. My first two years were spent undergoing drug trafficking investigations between two rival gangs, the Blood Mages and the Templars. Both vied for control over the production and distribution of lyrium in Kirkwall. The Templars were pushing their own brand: it’s red, highly addictive and chemically impure. The mental degradation occurs at a much more rapid rate, and excessive use can rot a person from the inside out. The way it penetrated the market…it needed to be stopped.

“So, there I was. A man born and raised on a farm was now reaping promotional advancements upon Chief Stannard’s recommendations. She told me she was impressed with my integrity as an officer—that I was ‘always willing to go one step beyond.’ Before long, she’d made me lieutenant and I had three men under my leadership." He pursed his lips, recalling their faces. "Barris was a quiet, creative type. His ingenuity saved my skin more times than I could count. Keran would have been my brother's age, young and desperate to rise up from the rank of 'beat cop.' Then there was Samson, who took pride in being a bit of a wild card. At the time, I truly felt blessed, like the Maker himself was smiling with every successful arrest. One more gang member off the streets meant one more citizen of Kirkwall could rest safely that night.”

“Were _you_ able to sleep at night?” Neb asked.

He chuckled. “Rarely. My mentor insisted that our personhood didn’t matter. All the anguish and ugliness we endured day-in and day-out was all for the greater good. And I bought into her philosophy. Sacrifices were necessary to protect the people. After several years, that sense of duty would be ultimately tested.

“My team and I were to lead a raid on one of the Blood Mages’ known facilities in an abandoned fishery on the waterfront. I’d been working with a gang infiltrator named Jowan who tracked their delivery schedules and the two of us arranged the perfect time for an assault. I’d spent months preparing for this, my chance to prove myself.” He swallowed.

“That night, the five of us went in while Stannard’s crew waited for a backup signal. Jowan informed us that this time would be busy with activity as they pushed out their evening shipment. We were met with silence instead.”

“What happened?”

“…An ambush.”

“ _No_!”

 _A vial dropped from the ceiling and landed in front of him with an overpowering crash. He had barely enough time to maneuver away before the broken glass erupted into crimson flames._ “They bombarded us with chemical explosives, herding us to the back of the building. I tried to call for backup but my comm was suddenly unresponsive.”

 _This was wrong. It was all wrong, but there wasn’t time to assess_. “We found the contraband unguarded but there was this bitter, sour smell mixing in the air. By the time I reached the doorway it was already too late. There was nothing I could do.”

She watched him intently while he formed the words. “There was an explosion.” _Pelting him with bullets of drywall and cement._

“Oh, Maker, no.”

“I don’t know how I survived. I broke nearly every bone in my body, sustained massive burns, nearly lost my hearing.” His eyes burned while he choked back a sob. “My men weren’t as fortunate.”

Neb cupped a hand over her mouth in shock.

“Physical therapy and hospitalization took countless months, but the district graciously welcomed me back into service upon my release. That’s when they informed me of everything I missed:

“It turned out that Stannard had it rigged from the beginning—the _very_ beginning. It had been her intent to sacrifice my squad and frame the Blood Mages in order to concentrate citywide efforts on taking them down. I was just another pawn to remove from the board. The news broke me for months afterward. I couldn’t focus. The thoughts of my men, of Meredith, of Jowan, consumed me. Everyone on the street became a new affiliate. I did things I’m…not proud of. Neither was our interim chief, Captain Aveline Vallen. Having just returned, she forced me to resign after being deemed ‘unfit to serve.’”

“Cullen, I’m so sorry. Clearly she was found out. Was there ever a trial?”

He winced in regret. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because Meredith Stannard is dead.”

“ _Dead_?”

“The situation was more complex than we could have foreseen. Meredith was once an exemplary officer. I admired her leadership, her vigilance. She could be cold and calculating, yes, but at the time she was so _committed_ to making Kirkwall safer. It was that tenacity and passion that I wanted to emulate. I couldn’t have been more proud to have her as a mentor. Unfortunately, it was that pride that deluded me…I should have noticed the signs sooner.”

“What signs?”

“Over the years, Meredith became increasingly paranoid. Always pacing, always working, always shifting her eyes right and left. Holding secretive meetings off-site. Keeping me in the dark. It was evident that she’d been plotting.”

“Do you mean she was paranoid in the way Bartrand was?”

“Yes, Meredith was a lyrium addict— _red_ lyrium.”

“She was working for the Templars!”

“Correct. _They_ had international ties and were able to smuggle in a shipment of Qunari gaatlok explosives to ensure the warehouse explosion would be fatal. That was the sourness. And my mole Jowan?” He gave a sniff of disapproval. “Under Meredith’s employ the entire time.”

Neb looked surprised. “But the smell should have given her away!”

“I was naïve, Neb. Of course I could smell it, but our precinct reeked with apprehended lyrium and users cycled through the office like it had a revolving door. Our nights and weekends meant enduring prolonged exposure on stealth drug busts. I recall coming home and smelling it on myself just by proximity! It just didn’t occur to me that she could be capable of manipulating all of this—not until it was too late. It’s my fault. I was just released from the hospital when I heard about her overdose. Jowan was exonerated in a plea deal and fled Kirkwall. Every night, I went to sleep imagining how I’d find him and beat him within an inch of his life. With no one left to prosecute, the case was closed. Like nothing ever happened.”

“And you feel your men deserve justice,” she speculated. “You think it’s the only way you can be forgiven.”

"This isn't some petty attempt to vindicate myself or to try to forge some semblance of honor from it. I see clearer now than I once did. I was blinded…and that blindness killed good people. I’m retold my own incompetence every time I see my reflection. There is no forgiveness for who I was.”

“You’re always saying that: ‘who I was.’ What about who you are now? This New Cullen? Do you think _he_ can be forgiven?”

“…I don’t know.”

“You _need_ to give yourself permission to move on.”

“But how can I truly move on when I’m physically marked by my past?” She watched him while he drew a finger to the pale scar above his lip. “This one is from my helmet cracking on impact. I don’t like to imagine what it would have been like for me if I hadn’t worn it.” He swallowed, nervous. He couldn’t muster the courage to tell her about the rest.

“It’s a reminder that you survived.” Neb gave him an encouraging smile.

“No,” he said. “It’s a reminder that I _failed_. Don’t you understand? Those men were under _my_ command. Their livelihoods were _my_ responsibility but I led them to slaughter. I may as well have…held the ax myself.”

The metaphor struck an intense note as he remembered Keran. _No, no, not right now. Not here._

The air turned black with smoke. He could remember that sour smell; the ringing in his ears; the way his skin expanded and crackled like cooked meat under the heat of the flames. He began to hyperventilate.

"Are you all right?" Neb asked.

"It's too hot in here," he panted. "I can't breathe!"

"Cullen, are you having a panic attack?"

He nodded as he tried to subdue his distress. His throat grew tight while the cherry wood panels along the walls began to slant and sway. _Control yourself. It’s not real._

"Cullen, it's Sunday on the eighteenth of Harvestmere, 9:41. You're sitting in a penthouse in Haven. That was more than three years ago. You're not in Kirkwall anymore. Cullen? Can you hear me?"

He nodded more vigorously and felt a wash of affection when he noted that she didn't try to touch him. Mia’s hands would be all over him if he got like this around her, and even the gentlest of fingers would still feel abrasive when fear took control. He planted his hands on the table but the surface felt hot, like the burning rubble under his palms as he clawed his way toward Keran's mutilated body. _No head_. _A mound of hot, wet flesh where the neck should have been._

"Can you remember what you did this morning?" she asked softly.

"I was…" _Fire flasks! They knew we were coming._ "I met you at the Chantry on Sixth." _Some bastard must have tipped them off!_

"What did we do there?"

"There were six of us. You led a session. I showed Sera how to strum," he spoke rapidly between gulps of air.

"Can you picture your guitar neck?"

After a deep inhale, he positioned his hands and tried to replace the scrape of gravel with the cold smooth mahogany; the prick of broken glass with the sting of the frets underneath his amateur fingers. "Yes."

"Then show me what you showed Sera. Play G."

 _G Major._ Cullen concentrated on envisioning his index finger on the fifth string, second fret. He remembered his fingers red and raw when he initially played; his ring finger cramped as it held its place on the sixth string, third fret. Then he could picture Neb teaching him—her small, nimble digits fluidly contorting from one chord to the next. Picturing her playing along with him, he mimicked _Andraste’s Mabari,_ that saccharine children’s song he’d perfected twice over with its bland 4/4 rhythm and moderate tempo.

“That’s it, now remember your breathing.”

_Inhale one, two, three—exhale one, two, three. Inhale one, two, three—exhale one, two, three._

Before he knew it, the song was over. But so were the visions. He stared ahead, watching the picture frames hang still and linear while his breathing normalized. Only after his body relaxed did he feel the reassuring warmth of her hand on his forearm.

“Hey. I’m proud of you,” she said.

“Thank you,” he moved to place his hand over hers but she pulled it away, using it to ruffle her snow soaked hair instead. In one fluid motion, Cullen brought his up toward the back of his neck and began rubbing a feigned neck ache instead. _At least I can save some face this way._

It would have been foolish on his part, anyway. Even if there was a chance she’d regained a spark of interest after getting to know him, he’d have a better chance of crushing silverite with his pinky than hearing she wanted to be with him upon hearing everything. Not her.

… _Probably not anyone._

“And I’m sure your sister’s proud of you, too,” Neb said.

He gave a light snort. “She wants me to come visit her soon.”

“You should. In fact, I insist!”

“Do you now?”

“Mm-hmm. You told me yourself that it’s been years since you saw your family, and I think it’s a good time for New Cullen to reconnect with his roots.”

“Is this a bit of music therapist advice?”

“This is a bit of _friendly_ advice. I hope you consider the two of us friends, at least?”

 _At least?_ There was something in the fluttering of her eyelashes in the way she said it. He’d been wrong before—he’d been wrong so many times in his life. Maybe he was right this once? Maybe now was the perfect moment? She’d listened. She’d supported him. She helped him step-by-step through an anxiety episode. Neb was so patient, so understanding, and when she sang he felt reborn. _Stop thinking. For once in your life just talk!_

“Neb, there is something else I’ve wanted to speak to you about. While we’re alone.”

She corrected her posture, scooted to the edge of her chair and placed her palms in her lap. “You can tell me anything. I’m listening.”

“Neb…” He leaned toward her, holding her gaze. “From the moment—“

“Miss Trevelyan?” Varric’s assistant Bran turned the corner. “The weather is estimated to worsen throughout the evening. It’s advised that I escort you home sooner rather than later.”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck—genuinely this time. In one fraction of a second, he’d lost all momentum. “You’d better go,” he said.

“What about—“

“It’s not important. It can wait.” No. _It’s very important. It can’t wait._

“Oh. Okay then.”

Damn it all! _Why_ did he have to be interrupted? Cullen sat there, feeling dejected while she fastened her coat.

“Listen, Cullen,” she said. “I really _do_ think you should go see Mia soon. It might help clear your mind.”

At this point, the idea of jumping ship and fleeing to another city felt more appealing than it did a few minutes ago. “Well, maybe I’ll go see her this weekend upcoming weekend, then.”

She smiled. “Then I wish you the best. The weekend after is our fundraiser. Don’t forget to RSVP if you’d like to come.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” he said as Bran ushered her to the door.

“And one more thing?” Neb turned back to him.

“Hm?”

“For what it’s worth, I like New Cullen. Try to be nicer to him.”

When she left and the door clicked shut, he put his plan into motion. _The winter fundraiser._ Spirits would be high that night. He’d take her by the hand and propose a personal heart-to-heart while patrons wined and reveled and he could properly confess how much he’d come to truly appreciate her company.

Taking his phone out of his pocket, a comical photo greeted him where the Drakon logo used to be: Neb’s excited grin glowed against the snowy white backdrop while he looked down at her, somewhat stern and uncomfortable. Varric had interrupted them before she could give him her number, but she at least had time to change his screen’s wallpaper.

Just a couple more weeks. Until then, he’d take another step forward and make a trek to South Reach.

And before _that_ , he’d try to figure out how to create a void-ridden Fadebook account.


	15. South Reach

_Maker, I’ve missed so much._

Cullen hummed to himself while he cruised in his rental car down the highway headed toward South Reach. The guilt over having been away when his homeland was being ravaged nagged at him. Neb told him to strike up a song when he felt this way, so that’s what he did. The act had become not only habitual, but routine. It was an easy means of comfort when he once had none, and right now he needed every self-soothing exercise he could muster. 

Apart from Haven, which had lived up to its name and remained an untainted sanctuary for refugees during Orlais’ invasion, he had seen little of Ferelden upon his return from Kirkwall. He recalled taking a long drive from Honnleath to the ocean in South Reach with his family when he was twelve and how mundane the never-ending wheat fields and thicket looked. Rosalie was still an infant and rested in his mother’s arms up front, wriggling inside a wrapped green blanket like a plump caterpillar, while he and his two other siblings were crammed together in the back seat. Branson, who was six at the time, would punch him in the arm whenever a blue car sped past as part of an obscure road trip game that only he played.

Today, the highway revealed more of the Blights’ devastation across the countryside. Wheat fields were now overrun pastures after families abandoned their farmhouses. _Where were they now? Would they ever return?_ The lush thickets were replaced with ashen patches of charred, blackened roots. It would take generations for the trees to regrow. Coming up on his left was a blank billboard on which a daring vandal had spray painted two words of protest in crimson lettering: _Fuck Orlais._

A sentiment he shared for the rest of the drive.

* * *

They sat in Mia’s modest dining area which also doubled as her library. Cullen’s bookshelves featured an assortment of academic texts on religion and philosophy, while Mia hoarded a vast consortium of gardening manuals, foraging guides, volumes on local flora and fauna, essays about environmentalism and, possibly, how to beat your little brother at chess.

“Check,” Mia said as she purposefully propelled her chess piece across the board with a mighty clack.

“Sorry?”

“I said ‘check,’ Cullen. My queen’s got your king. You’re a little rusty at this.”

“I suppose I am…”

Mia was right. He was well out of practice. In fact, he hadn’t played a game since before he joined the police service. His sister was always the superior player, and she’d definitely win again. He made a fool’s mistake by opening with a pawn to F4, leaving his king completely exposed in only a couple of turns.

 “Thank you for driving all the way down here. I’m sorry I couldn’t get everyone to come and visit this weekend, but you know how it is. Rosalie is preparing for her winter exams and Bran’s son got pink eye.”

“No, I understand.” Cullen sat back in his chair, practicing guitar chords underneath the table. It was something else Neb told him to try when his guilt was overwhelming, and he was now quite proficient at envisioning a guitar neck with proper dimension. Whether Mia was telling the truth or if she was simply covering up the fact that his younger siblings didn’t want to see him, they were only showing him the same courtesy he’d given them over the last decade. “I haven’t been a good brother to them.”

Now Mia sat back. “No, that’s not it. They’re just…” she trailed off and he knew she was looking for comforting words, something safe and sweet to mend his conscience.

“I haven’t been a good brother to you, either, Mia. You don’t have to make excuses.”

She crossed her arms and hugged herself, deep in thought. “Well, we haven’t been the best siblings to you, also.”

“Mia—“

“No, I mean it. I’ve had time to think. It was just you and me for a long time, but once Branson and Rosalie came along you were more withdrawn. You were always the quiet one, you needed your space. We didn’t respect that. The three of us _tormented_ you, teased you—”

“We were kids.”

“Let me finish!” she demanded. “We pushed you away. That’s why you left. I remember the day you graduated from Kinloch. You had this yearning, this…this desperation to get as far from us as possible. When you began your police training, you were so proud. You’d proven yourself and they were transferring you to Kirkwall. We barely heard from you after that. A part of me feels like it was all my fault. If I’d been more considerate, maybe you…” She fanned her eyes which glistened with fresh tears.

Cullen reached for his sister’s hands across the table and she obliged while she controlled her breathing. “Nothing you did affected my decision, Mia. I was young, idealistic and captivated by a promise that I would be doing something good. Something that would make the family proud. My stupid sense of duty is what sent me to Kirkwall, not you, nor Branson or Rosalie.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. “But that doesn’t change how I felt when you came back. You were still healing, you’d tried to get the station to take you back and they wouldn’t… We hadn’t seen you in so long, Cullen, and the way you looked was just like…”

“Like what?”

“...Do you remember how Dad was after our mother died?”

It was a painful memory for all of them. Their mother passed away too young of an aneurism in her brain. She’d been as energetic and motivated as ever on that grim day. Their father found her in the barn face-down. The only consolation that the paramedics could provide was that she would have gone to the Maker’s side quickly and with little pain. There were no signs, no warnings. No closure. It wasn’t long after the funeral that their father’s own health began to decline. He wandered the house listlessly, like he was looking for something he could never find.

“Dad was sick.”

“He got sick because he just gave up, Cullen! You know it as much as I do. Mom was gone and she took him with her. All that remained was a husk of a man with nothing left to live for, and I—“ she choked back another sob. “And I was afraid for so long that the same thing would happen to you. When you came home, you looked just like him…like a man who’d lost everything. I panicked. I hovered. I know, I shouldn’t have. You just needed your damn space!” She started gasping, trying to keep her composure while squeezing his hands tighter.

“Mia,” he said, “These last few months have given me time to reflect on my life; who I was, who I am, who I want to be.” He paused. “But I realize now that the reason I never gave up was because you never did. Staying in contact, reminding me to take my damned medication—I needed it. You’re right, I was always the quiet one. I was also obstinate. I always thought I was above being helped. A lesser person would have left me to my own devices and who knows what my future would have held? If it wasn’t for you I may well have ended up like our father, or worse.”

She wiped her nose on her ragged knit sleeve. “You really mean it?”

He nodded. “I let duty and honor cloud my thoughts and transform me into someone I didn’t recognize. Literally, it seemed. My own reflection became unfamiliar. I’m forever marked by my past, but I won’t let my guilt or my anger inhibit me any longer. I feel like I’m starting to understand what is truly important to me in my life. It would never have happened if I didn’t have my big sister to keep me on track.”

“Oh, Cullen, I’ve missed you so much!” she stood up and rushed to his side so she could pull him into a fervent hug. He hugged her back, feeling lighter than before. Unfortunately, she gripped his shoulders too tightly and he hissed in pain.

“I’m sorry! I forgot!” She let go and sat back in her chair. “They still hurt?”

“Only if I’m caught off guard,” he reassured. “Speaking of which, I uh—I told her what happened.”

“Who?” she asked, though her face proved that she knew the answer.

“Neb.” Just saying her name out loud made his stomach somersault.

“In one of your music classes?”

“No, we were just…we were talking, that’s all.”

She gave him a discerning look. “…That’s all, huh?”

Cullen shifted in his seat and he felt eager to change the subject. “Were you expecting something more, or are we going to finish our game?”

She huffed, disappointed. “Fine. Well, I suppose I _have_ been itching to bask in victory for too long tonight.” Mia gave him a sly smile and moved her cleric to take another vulnerable pawn at F7. “And: _checkmate_! Yes! Oh, you were just demolished! Some things never change.”

“And you’re still as understated as always.”

“Lighten up, you sore loser. Take a lesson from Oghren over there and relax.”

 _Oghren_. While Cullen could at least tolerate cats without fully understanding their mass appeal, the ancient, crotchety creature lounging in his sister’s reading chair was an insufferable demon. His long tangerine fur was so matted that it augmented his husky frame and added a pronounced mustache to his paunchy face. If the mean bastard hadn’t been snacking on field mice all day, he’d beg for food every half hour with an obnoxious yowl and if his demands were not met he’d proceed to bat and hiss around one’s ankles with honed claws. When the cat slept, he always had one citrus green eye open and Cullen could swear it followed his every move.

“Can I get you anything else to eat? More cookies?” Mia stood and stretched before making her way to the kitchen. By the time he’d parked his car along her narrow graveled driveway she was practically force feeding him: roast chicken, pumpkin soup, crusty bread, dill potatoes and vanilla shortbread. He was always fond of the simple buttery confections when their mother made them for Satinalia, but the _smell_ was suddenly more appealing than the wistful flavor. It reminded him of something recent, though before he could place it, they were startled by a metallic _clang_ outside followed by a high-pitched yelp.

“What in the Maker’s name was that?” he asked.

“It worked!” Mia was grinning like she’d just won a chest of gold. “I don’t believe it…it actually worked! I got him!” His sister dashed to the door and threw on her boots while Cullen quickly followed suit. The night air was frigid, and if his mind wasn’t a frenzy of confusion and curiosity, he would be dumbstruck by the number of constellations in the sky. He really couldn’t see the stars in Haven; only the simulated twinkle of street lights.

“Remember that dog who’s been after my chickens?” she asked while they trudged through the snow to her barn.

“Yes.” Cullen recalled her showing him a blurry photo on her phone in the restaurant when she drove up to visit. That was the same night that he heard Neb play the harp.

“That slippery bastard has been just out of my grasp for months, so I was talking to this guy down at the feed store and he sold me this cage trap. Place some bait inside, the mongrel sniffs it out, goes in and _clap_! The door’s closed behind him. Oh, I owe that man a beer.”

Mia was gloating but Cullen couldn’t help but feel poorly for the animal, trapped and desperate with no one to come to its aid. It was a sensation which was all too familiar.

That pang of sadness turned immediately to awe when he saw the dog for himself: it was impressively tall, broad and powerful, with a short grey and white coat. “Maker, he’s—“

“He’s a big one, that’s for sure.”

“He’s a _mabari_.”

Mia circled the cage while the dog frantically whined. He had barely enough room to turn around in his prison. “Indeed he is. That explains why he was so crafty. Must have gotten desperate. A cunning thing like him would have to be damned near starved to death before walking into a trap like this.”

“What’s a purebred mabari doing out in the middle of nowhere? They’re priceless show dogs.”

“It’s not so surprising, Cullen. When Orlais invaded, families were evacuated with barely the clothes on their backs. He could have been left behind or had his owner killed off in the Blights and then had to fend for himself. You can make out his ribs, see? Probably been living on scraps for years, wandering the countryside. No wonder he was so eager to get to my chicken coop. I’m going to go inside to call animal control.”

“What will they do with him?”

“Take him to the shelter where he’ll likely get adopted right away since any patriotic Fereldan would fight tooth and nail for a chance to own him. I wouldn’t worry too much.”

Cullen kneeled down to meet the dog face-to-face after Mia left the barn. His yellow eyes were panicked and he began to whimper again. “Hey, you,” Cullen said softly. “It’s all right. Take it easy. Can you sit?” He cocked his head to one side as if he was ruminating the request before planting his haunches on the ground. _So you_ are _trained_.

“Speak?”

The mabari responded with a chuff.

“Come on then, I think you can do better than that!”

“ _Bark!_ ”

“That’s more like it. You’re a smart fellow, aren’t you?”

The dog excitedly wagged his nubby tail and he was no longer panting heavily from anxiety. Maker, he was a magnificent beast. Cullen didn’t know if he could call himself a Fereldan any longer after having been away for so long, but to be in the presence of the country’s imposing symbol filled him with a sense of awe and humility.

It was a shame to see a being so capable confined to a tiny miserable cage. Sure, the proper authorities would transport him to a new confine – a bigger, cleaner one with fancier food – but it was still just a cage. His day-to-day life would still be subjected to the wants of others. He didn’t belong there; he didn’t deserve it. He’d suffered enough.

They had that in common. His entire adult life had been a slew of new cages; of bending to others’ wills. In some form, the terrified animal before him became an extension of himself.

Cullen knew it was a risk, but he ever-so-slowly reached a trembling hand through the bars. The mabari’s ears went back and he ducked his head in fear. It wasn’t a positive reaction, but at least he wasn’t being aggressive.

“Easy, boy,” he soothed. “It’s okay. You can trust me.”

Reaching for the lock on the gate, he prepared himself to apprehend the mabari if things turned sour. Yellow eyes intently watched him undo the latch. They both sat perfectly still while the gate slowly opened with a metallic shriek. They held each other’s gaze for an eternal moment. If he wasn’t mistaken, it felt like they understood each other.

“Come here,” he patted on his knee. He wasn’t prepared for the massive grey blur that lurched toward him, knocked him flat on his back and crushed the air from his lungs. The force blurred his vision and all he could feel was hot damp breath on his face. Maker, he was also heavy. Cullen was certain that the bulkiest officers he’d sparred with were only half of the animal’s weight. The dog had him pinned and vulnerable underneath his powerful maw, but it wasn’t jagged teeth that met his cheek. It was the slobbering drag of his tongue. The mabari licked his face in a frenetic frenzy, settling his oversized body on top of him, wiggling excitedly.

“Okay, boy, down—ack! _Down_!” The dog didn’t relent until he heard Mia’s footsteps approach.

“What in the void do you think you’re doing?” Cullen looked up and she was frowning with her hands on her hips.

“I, uh…I think he likes me,” he said, petting his downy soft fur.

“We needed to keep him contained before animal control gets here. We can’t risk him running off again!”

“No need, Mia. I’ve got everything under control.”

“Cullen, he’s got you laying in muck underneath him. You can’t possibly get that thing to listen to you.”

He looked him in the eyes and garnered his most authoritarian voice, usually reserved for staff training exercises. “ _Off_.”

The dog obeyed, giving his face another lick before standing up walking a few paces over to Mia’s side and sitting back down.

“See?” Cullen gloated.

“So what, he’s your buddy now?”

“I think so. He deserves a second chance…and I’m going to give him one.”

“Are you saying that _you_ want to take him?”

There truly was something different about the way he felt. More open, lighter—and it wasn’t just because he didn’t have a mabari on top of him any longer. He would have turned the dog in only months ago, whether he felt sympathy or not. It was his obligation to consign a rule breaker to the proper authorities.

But he wasn’t that man anymore. He never wanted to be that man again.

“Yes,” he nodded, still reclined on the cold ground. “He’s coming home with me.”

* * *

Driving back to Haven, Cullen’s car contained a fifty-pound sack of kibble, bronto rawhides and an impulse shopping bag filled to the brim with squeaky toys. Griffon, his new furry companion, wiggled his tail nub wildly as he stuck his head out the window. His jowls whipped in the wind and showered the car in sticky drool.

“You there! Mind the leather. This is a rental.”

He rolled the window up. Griffon pulled his head back inside and relaxed into the passenger seat. Cullen caught glimpses of him in his peripheral: pupils wide, ears back, head low.

“I know what you’re trying to do. It won’t work.”

He whined, long and drawn out.

“…Oh, all right, _fine_ ,” Cullen groaned, lowering the window again and trying to ignore the way the dog’s claws clamored over the door's interior in his desperate scramble.

As the car rolled through town, a brick covered shop caught his attention. Not just the shop but what it displayed in the window: an old record player among an assortment of vintage albums. One in the corner particularly caught his eye. _Could it be…?_ He jerked the wheel left, pulling into a parking space with an urgency that had Griffon stumbling backward for balance.

“Sorry boy, small detour I’m afraid. I hope you don’t mind a wait. You’ll behave, won’t you?”

“ _Bark!_ ”

“Well _of course_ , I’ll leave the window open.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm, who else met a furry friend when they were at their lowest point and came home with a new pet and a new outlook on life? 
> 
> I wrote this chapter months ago and it makes me super happy so I'm excited I can finally share it with you! I hope you didn't miss chapter 14 which was also posted today!


	16. Scars

_They kept the interrogation room intentionally frigid. An officer would bring the suspect a hot cup of coffee as a show of trust. For lesser crimes or first-time offenders, it masked a simple ploy to get the suspect to open up, tell them what they knew, maybe even confess. Every station’s had the same setup: blank, sound-proof walls, a slender table and three chairs. The idea was to create a sense of exposure and vulnerability. Psychological manipulation begins before the door even closes. Unfortunately, repeat offenders learned to see past any attempt to maximize a person’s discomfort or powerlessness._

_Quentin was one such individual. He’d been through Kirkwall’s prison circuit numerous times for possession, assault and theft.  He was a slimy prick as far as Cullen cared—a representative of all the corruption and seediness stewing on the waterfront after dark._

_Now he was suspected of human trafficking, Cullen’s first case after being released._

_“Three women are missing. All blonde haired, blue eyed. Each of them was last seen off of Twelfth and Emeric. Your old haunt before you were locked up. Recognize any of them?” He pushed three manila envelopes toward him, each clipped with photographs of the abductees._

_Quentin’s milky eyes glossed over their faces before curling his shoulders into an exaggerated shrug. “Dunno. Look like they all got the same hairdresser. Maybe you should be askin’ him?” He grinned, revealing crimson gums and blackened teeth, a sign of prolonged lyrium use._

_“I’m asking you. Where were you on the twenty-seventh of Bloomingtide the night Alessa Beck disappeared?”_

_“Hmm,” he sat back with his arms crossed. “You know, I’d have to check my planner.”_

_Cullen suspected he’d be unmoved by baseline questions, but his obstinacy was a vital indication that he knew something. A non-guilty party would have divulged their itinerary straight away. It had been a while, but he only needed to be patient. Just be patient. Try negotiation._

_“Quentin, human trafficking is a serious offense. You’ve only just finished your last sentence. Tell us what you know and we’ll see if we can make an arrangement.”_

_“I’m not sayin’ nothin’ till I get my lawyer.”_

_He sighed and turned toward the observation mirror where he knew Captain Vallen was waiting. Quentin had a right to an attorney, but it would involve a change in interrogation strategy._

_“Very well. We’ll summon him and when he arrives, be ready.”_

_“Oh, you know what?” Quentin said just as Cullen gripped the door handle. “I_ do _recall seeing someone that night.”_

_He quirked an eyebrow. This was unusual behavior. “Who was it?”_

_Quentin smirked. “Your old buddy. What was his name? Oh yeah,_ Jowan _. Said he was skippin’ town.”_

_His vision blackened at the mere mention of his name. This was petty police provocation; he knew he couldn’t fall for it. He couldn’t. It was unrelated to the case._

_“What did he say?” His jaw clenched. Night after night, Cullen imagined bludgeoning Jowan’s face in one profound act of vengeance._

_“Just got off totally free and seemed pretty pleased with himself, having strung Meredith’s lieutenant up like a cat. Say, that was you, weren’t it?”_

Stay calm. _“Stop talking. I’ll get in contact with your attorney.”_

_“How does it feel knowing you were the Blood Mages’ bitch all along?”_

_“That’s enough, Quentin.”_ Don’t let him push you over the brink.

_“And you got nothin’ for it,” he tsked. “Jowan weren’t even that smart. If I were you, I’d feel like a right idiot. Bet your little super squad would—if they were still breathing, that is.”_

_Cullen lunged toward him and the rest was a blur._

* * *

One of the things Cullen learned while hospitalized: that his scars are not composed of the same layers and cells as his skin. Skin sheds surface cells. Other cells are maintained and replaced by different mechanisms. Scars are formed from collagen of a specific type, and some types differ from others—the one above his lip, for example. Ideally, a scar will continue to contract and become smaller over time, leaving a barely noticeable fine line. Early on, he received laser treatments to inhibit the formation of keloid so all that lingered at his mouth now was a deep strip of pale pink flesh.

Something else he learned: if there was a gap to fill between the wound edges, then the result is granulation, leaving behind a thicker scar that’s more prone to tearing. If a tear occurs, it typically stays intact while the skin edge is torn away from it. Scars aren't as resilient as skin tissue, so they don't give to pulling force as well. If there is skin on either side there'd less likely to be any tearing due to added elasticity, but if you’ve sustained critical thermal injuries on your left shoulder, there’s little left but meat and bone.

This meant that a certain degree of care was required when doing something as simple as bathing, as too much heat or stretching caused residual pain. Early on, a team of nurses would sit him in a tub while he underwent a grueling process known as skin grafting.

“Hold still,” they’d instructed him, dizzy from excess carbon monoxide and sore with cracked ribs, while they stretched and stapled a fresh layer of cadaver tissue across the wound. He’d recline in the hospital bed, desperate for pain relief, while the injury fevered which caused the raw flesh to swell and, eventually, reject the new layer. That was the worst part; it meant he was sentenced back to the tub where he’d be scraped, snipped, scrubbed and stapled once again while the wound healed, spending months waiting for a graft to finally take. After that, it was imperative to treat it with routine moisture and exfoliation to stimulate circulation—a ritual he carried on to this day.

Early on, he couldn’t expose himself to hot water or risk irritating his injuries, so he’d long grown accustomed to taking cool showers. They always helped invigorate him after an evening of gruesome nightmares.

As it turned out, so did Griffon. He smiled when he heard him gnawing happily on a marrow bone in the living room. The last week with him at his side had been better than expected. In the midst of a bad dream, he was suddenly awoken to the dog standing at his bedside and resting his comically large head on his chest to calm him. Cullen would gently stroke his fur while humming until he drifted into a more restful reverie.

An animal his size required regular exercise, so Griffon also motivated him to keep up his morning routine. They’d just finished an extensive run around the lake and back, and it comforted him to have his silent companionship coaching him along while brisk air filled his lungs. When he came home from a long day at work, Griffon greeted him with enthusiastic zeal.

…He really needed to train him not to jump, though. The gargantuan canine seemed completely oblivious to just how big he was.

Once he was freshly washed, he patted his shoulder dry and took out his jar of elfroot balm. The oily green substance offered intense hydration with a slight cooling effect that prevented his scarring from tightening. Adding moisture was crucial, as the affected area could no longer produce its own lubrication. Unfortunately, accurate coverage of the product required use of the bathroom mirror, which involved _looking_ at it, which involved _thinking_ about it.

Reluctantly, he glanced up at his reflection and sighed. Gnarled face, marred body, past trauma. What would _anyone_ ever see in him?

 _A reminder you survived. You need to give yourself permission to move on._ Neb’s words rang through his head as he massaged the balm into his skin. She sounded so sincere in her request that he be kinder to himself. Neb, who was all soft edges where he was jagged; who brimmed with life and health and happiness; who grew up poor, just as he did, but lived a life rich in experience.

The fundraiser was a day away. Her signature optimism couldn't be imitated, but if he was truly going to follow through with his plan then it was time to start generating his own. It was time to add to his daily ritual.

He might never truly get closure for the events that took place in Kirkwall, but he was better equipped than ever to cope with what happened. The only true closure he may ever get is by simply moving on. And that wouldn’t happen without risk. That wouldn’t happen without facing the man in the mirror and releasing him. Every day, he needed to forgive himself. Every day, he needed to at least _try_.

After taking his medication, he reached for a small cobalt vial in the mirror cabinet: the essential oil Neb gave him. Its floral scent really _did_ help relieve his headaches.

“Let it all go,” he whispered, making eye contact with his reflection. “Pull yourself together. You can do this. You’re ready.”

* * *

“Ack! This one has maple in it!” Josie said while scorning her bite of chocolate.

“Here, I’ll trade you. Mine is a fruit cream—tastes like cough syrup.”

It was the night before the fundraiser and they were spending it in Neb’s bedroom, drinking wine and nibbling on a box of chocolates while a piano sonata filtered in from down the hallway on her record player. Swapping unfavorable morsels was just another one of their traditions.

“I eat the maples; you eat the creams. This is why we’re best friends,” Neb said.

“Our relationship is truly economical. No leftover unwanted chocolates between us.”

“Except for the molasses ones.”

“Maker, except the molasses,” Josie hissed. “They should be ashamed of themselves!” She popped the half-eaten confection into her mouth.

“So how did the fundraiser come out budget-wise this year?” Neb asked, taking a sip from her glass.

Not only had Josephine built a successful law career for herself in Haven, she also joined Resounding Joys’ nonprofit board as the voluntary treasurer as a show of support for her friend’s career. This included bank account maintenance, budget proposals and managing the event in question. It was an excellent resume booster and she thrived in the role.

“As you know, Mr. Tethras’ patronage allows us certain liberties with our budget; however, that doesn’t mean that I haven’t pulled some strings with my connections.”

“It never ceases to amaze me how you always seem to be able to call in favors for goods and services.”

Josephine giggled. “Networking is purely a Montilyet trait, and one that my family bred into me from infancy. I did a legal favor for a local wine vendor in exchange for libations, and was able to negotiate a similar arrangement for the canapes.”

“So did we actually pay for _anything_?” she goaded.

“The musicians, of course! Leliana and I saw them perform at this new jazz lounge in the old elven quarter. Pretty certain you'd adore them. They'll provide a jovial blend of instrumental dance music with a bit more ambiance than your average garage band. With plenty of food and drink to go with it, I'm certain we'll have our patrons reaching for their wallets in no time."

"Josie, you're a supreme being among mortals, as usual," Neb said while reaching for another chocolate from the box and popping it into her mouth. Hazelnut praline.

"Mmm, I can hardly stand it myself some days." Her phone chimed on the bed next to her, indicating a text message. “Leliana’s just telling me she’s going to bed.”

“Not to change the subject, but may I ask you something?”

" _Please_ tell me you're not planning to go out of town and need someone to watch Cole and that's why you bribed me here with wine and candies?"

"No, that's not—really? Not even if I left for a weekend?"

She shook her head. "One moment, he's nowhere to be seen. Then the second you turn around, there he is! I don't know how he does it, but—ah!" She cried out in surprise when she noticed Cole perched in his usual spot on her dresser, flitting his tail to and fro. "Tell me he was there the whole time!"

"C'mere, kitty!" Neb cooed while giving pats of invitation to her quilt. Cole chirped and bounded to her so she could nuzzle him. "Do you enjoy scaring Auntie Josie, hm?" The mattress practically rumbled from his fervent purrs.

"So, you were saying?"

"Oh. Right." She pursed her lips. "Anyway, I wanted to ask...I know you and Leliana were close before, but when—how—did you know that you were suddenly... _more_ than friends?"

Josephine picked up her wine glass and swirled it before taking a sip—a trick she picked up from Leliana, Neb noted. "To be perfectly honest, I can't say for certain. It was almost as if, meeting her again, we realized that we were more than friends all along." Then she gave her a knowing look. "Why? Are you asking for any reason in particular?"

"No," she mumbled, petting her cat a little more vigorously.

_You can keep secrets. You can be mysterious. You can withhold your inner struggles._

"Are you sure?"

_...No you can't._

"Ugh, _yes_ ," she groaned and flopped onto her back.

"I think I can gather who this might be about," she said matter-of-factly.

There was no sense in playing coy. "I'm that transparent?"

"To someone who has known you for nearly a decade, mind."

She heaved a sigh of self-pity. "I don't know what I'm doing, Josie."

"Did something happen recently?"

"He came to see me at the Chantry on Sunday a couple of weeks ago."

"Oh?"

"It was actually really touching. Then afterward he walked me home in the middle of the snowstorm even though I know he lives and works downtown." She recalled the cold her cheeks as she showed him how to operate his camera in the hush of snowfall and the way her heart wouldn't stop pounding from nerves. "Then we ran into Varric and before long we were at his penthouse eating lunch. Bartrand was there. After a while we were left alone to talk."

"And???" Josephine eagerly pushed the box of chocolates out of the way so she could scoot closer in attention.

"He opened up to me about his past, just as I was about to tell him that I thought it best that I resign. So...I listened instead. And then I left."

"So he made an effort to visit you on his own time after you arbitrarily mentioned your volunteer work in conversation two days prior, and then proceeds to confess his darkest hours to you that same day? How does that make you feel?" As an attorney, Neb knew her friend would respect Cullen's privacy enough not to pry. She herself was humbled that he finally spoke to her about it. To show himself at his most vulnerable in a foreign dining room of his own volition like that was inspiring, though the interaction left her feeling...

"Confused. You know how I view law enforcement but I sympathized with him, truly. The things he endured, I can't imagine. I saw a man who desperately wants to change and find his place, but I don't understand where he thinks I fit. For a moment, our eyes met and it was…I don’t know. Was I reading too much into it? I mean, he and I are so similar, but vastly, vastly different."

"How so?"

"It's not something I expect you to understand, Josie. You're like him—you're thin. You're beautiful. You're intellectual. You're sophisticated. You're successful."

"You know, you're beautiful, intellectual and successful, too."

"It's not the same! Clothes always fit you off the rack. You can go to any lingerie store and find a bra without praying that they have some stock in extended sizes in the back. You have that accent. You have women and men _throwing themselves at you_. But me? I've _always_ been the last resort. I'm the one you go for when the dating pool is low, and I'm expected to repay any amount of attention with gratitude. I'm the girl who'd be 'so pretty if she just lost some weight.’ I'm not the one who has the privilege to hope for a romance with someone who's physically out of my league."

"Neb, I apologize. I supposed...you're so positive that I always assumed—"

"That I was a 'happy fat person'? That I loved my size?"

"Well, don't you?"

"I do!" She thought for a moment before shaking her head. "No. I don't know. To say I loved my body would almost cheapen the complicated relationship I've had with it. Imagining what I’d be like if my thighs were a little smaller; if my breasts were perkier. Would I fit in then? Do I _want_ to meet some arbitrary standard? Growing up overweight can leave an emotional scar. It may fade with time but deep down, it stays with you.

“My point is: if I'm not seen as some sexual conquest—a part of some fetishist's checklist—I'm nothing more than just 'nice.' What if all he sees in me is 'nice music therapist Neb' who's always patient and never a nervous mess? 'Bleeding heart social worker Neb' who is there to listen to him when he needs me but wants for nothing in return? Or worse—what if he sees me as _desperate_?

“At first, I was the boisterous fat woman who scolded him and then suddenly he was my client. What he doesn't know is that I really liked him—I did. There was something so earnest underneath that shy demeanor and so I keep hoping, even though I ruined it. _That’s_ why I’m confused." Josephine gave her a concerned look and her face flushed with embarrassment. This sort of emotional outburst was rare. "Sorry. I'm not used to feeling like this.”

"This might not be what you wish to hear, but it's not as complicated as you think."

"Oh, sure, the fat girl falls for the rich, handsome executive who pays her money for music therapy. Pretty cut and dry when you put it like that."

"I mean that the two of you haven't spoken about the blind date since it happened."

"What else is there to say? I blew it, plain and simple."

"Cullen may not see it that way."

It was the first time his name was uttered during their conversation and Neb felt her stomach squirm like one of Cole's motorized cat toys. She was so used to attraction being one-sided, but what if this was her chance? What if Leliana's cards _were_ right and the Maker really _was_ trying to tell her to take a risk? What if all it took was a heart-to-heart conversation? Maker, she might see him at the fundraiser tomorrow—surely she could find some time to talk to him then?

_But there’s a high chance you’re wrong. You’re statistically more likely to be wrong, and then you’re the woman who officially crossed a forbidden line. This is all on you. Do you have that kind of resolve?_

"Josie, I'm scared."

"That's why you'll have your best friend coaching you along." She took her hand and traced encouraging strokes along her palm with her thumb. "Neb, I've said it before: there is so much love in your heart, and you would do best to share it. But you must believe in yourself. Are you ready?"

She took a deep, deep breath. "All right. I think I'm ready."

" _Mew_ ," Cole squeaked from the other side of the room. Neb hadn't seen or felt him leave the bed. Maybe Josephine had a point. The stark white kitten was standing precariously close to her black fundraiser dress that she'd laid out on the corner chair in preparation for tomorrow. Hopefully, he wasn’t planning to lounge on it and cover it in hair.

"Say, why don't you try the dress on and we can practice your posture?" Josephine suggested.

Neb always thought her posture was quite decent. Growing up, her mother had a minor fascination with proper etiquette. "You think I really need that?"

"Leliana says that you slouch when you’re together. Practice might help you feel more at ease when you see him."

“Wait a minute. You talk about us?”

“We talk about everything,” she said, suddenly looking crestfallen. “Except her work, which seems to be a matter of supreme secrecy.”

“…Is everything all right between you two?”

“What? Of course it is! Neb, every relationship has its struggles. What matters is that Leliana and I put forth an effort. And if you’d like an outsider’s perspective, it looks like you’re both willing to do the same for one another.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I saw the way he looked at you while you sang your duet. It was the same wonderment and awe I felt when I first laid eyes on Val Royeaux as a university student. Like I said, it may not be as complicated as you think. Now put the dress on.”

Shamelessly shimmying out of her pajamas in front of her best friend was another aspect that came with being roommates in a one-bedroom apartment for three years. Would she be able to do so in front of Cullen so easily?

 _Don’t put the cart before the horse_ , she thought as she pulled the cocktail dress over her hips. She had almost gotten it fastened, when she felt a small tug in the fabric. _No, no, no!_

"Josie? My zipper's stuck."

Her friend came to her aid, holding the seam taut while she pulled the zipper up the rest of the way. "Um. It's going to be a snug fit. You won’t want to hear this either, but...might I suggest some shapewear?"

… _I don’t think I can do this._


	17. Fate or Folly

The tile floors gleamed with a glossy sheen under low lighting. They echoed with the clicks of designer pumps and shined dress shoes. With Varric’s name on the patron’s list, the fundraiser attracted a wide variety of clientele with the hope that the famed tycoon would make an appearance. Though, as his employee, Cullen knew first-hand that he wouldn't.  

A well-dressed band played light jazz in a corner, while the main space was converted into a dance floor for the evening. Volunteer wait staff served colorful cocktails and canapes. Small businesses donated gift baskets and wares for auction. For an urban nonprofit, it was far more of a refined gala than Cullen expected. He scanned the crowd hoping to find someone he knew when he was immediately enraptured by a black dress.  

He could tell it was Neb before she turned around but when she did—oh, Maker—it was like seeing her saunter into the coffee shop for the first time all over again. Her dress was cut low in the front and the back so he could see the flex of her shoulder blades, the fullness of her breasts. The fabric was taut across the slope of her waist, the contours of her lush hips. It narrowed tightly at her knees which drew his attention inexorably to her long, shapely legs before he scanned back up to her face. Her hair was voluminous, full of bouncing, glossy waves. She colored her eyelids in shades of black and bronze and an amethyst dangled from each earlobe. When she saw him, her lips drew back into a glowing smile and Cullen felt his throat go dry.  

She made her way through the din of dancers and donors toward him and he met her halfway; rather, he couldn’t wait the extra few seconds it would require before he could look at her up close were he to stand still. 

“Cullen. Hi,” she greeted. “Thank you so much for coming.”  

“Hi,” he croaked. Void take him, she was too beautiful. _Everything_ about her dazzled him: her dewy cheeks; her full mouth; the peppering of freckles across her bare shoulders; the gentle rise and fall of her chest with each breath she took; the warmth radiating from her caramel eyes; her curves, Maker’s breath, so many curves. Her magnetism was undeniable. He couldn't look away if he tried.  

He wasn’t prepared. There wasn’t anything preventing him from blurting out how gorgeous she looked, how badly he wanted her, how he’d never felt this way about anyone before, how alive he felt when she gave him even the slightest glance. Cullen needed to be smooth, subtle and composed. There wasn't an option to make an ass of himself a second time and unintentionally push her away for good.  

So he panicked. 

“Would you excuse me for a moment?” He darted into the crowd taking broad steps, though not fast enough to catch her bemusement. When he reached the other side of the room, he found himself at a table lined with glasses of sparkling wine. On impulse, he guzzled one. _No, idiot, slow down. You want a clear head. Or don’t you?_ Then a second, hoping to swallow his nerves along with it. By the third, the excess carbonation had made his eyes water and his nostrils burn. He decided to wait for the drinks to take some of the edge off when he felt a pat on his good shoulder. 

“You know; they _are_ on the house but they’re not going anywhere. Perhaps it’s best to slow down a bit?” Cullen turned to see Thom, who’d cleaned up nicely in a navy suit. His eyes wrinkled in amusement as he nursed his own flute. 

“Sorry, I’m…a bit distracted.” 

“I think I can understand why. She looks lovely,” he nodded, taking a sip. “And we’ve all made fools of ourselves over a pretty face.” 

“Not me!” Sera’s voice chimed in on his other side. She stood out in a full white suit and a loud yellow plaid bowtie. “Oi, Stuffed Shirt, our miss Trevelyan’s lookin’ well fit, yeah? I mean… _phwoar_! Ooh, bet you’d like a good down stroke right now, wouldn’t you?” She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, smiling shamelessly. 

“Sera, leave the man alone and relay your great wooing wisdom onto us instead,” Thom quirked his lips. 

“It's easy! Girls is easy—well, not like _easy_ -easy, though I bet some of these Lady Tightwads know their way 'round if you get what I mean. I just know what women like.” She pointed to the appetizers. “And if you empty out one of those stuffed tomato thingies, I can show you, too.” 

“…I think we’ll pass,” he said dryly. 

“If you two don’t mind,” Cullen said, “I could use a few minutes to myself.” 

“Pfft, fine,” Sera said, pulling Thom away by the arm. “C’mon, Beardy, I need you over by the food.” 

“Whatever for?” 

“You got the bigger pockets, stupid! We’re stuffing ‘em with the good stuff!” 

“Of course. If I had known you were planning to take advantage of my tailoring, I might have reconsidered the suit. Best of luck, Cullen,” he called out over his shoulder. 

“Yeah! And don’t forget: like a tomato!” Sera shouted so loudly a few donors around her raised an eyebrow. 

He sensed a light buzz running its course and Cullen felt lighter, calmer and ready to stride over to where Neb stood with more confidence. Not that it was difficult to spot her. She was so vibrant he could feel her presence with his eyes closed; a glowing white light in the darkness calling him, calming him. Her stunning back was toward him again while she addressed Josephine and Leliana, who murmured something to her before giggling their way to the dance floor.  

It was so tempting to reach out to her, but uncertainty halted his hand. He cleared his throat. 

“Neb.” 

She turned around. “Back again, I see.” 

“Yes. I’m sorry, I had to…I saw someone.” 

“You saw someone?” She smirked and raised an eyebrow. Cullen knew he was many things, but a convincing liar wasn’t one of them.  

“Then I ran into Thom. And Sera.” 

“Oh? And how are they?” 

“I believe they’re pilfering appetizers.” 

A giggle flourished from her chest. “Somehow I’m not surprised.”  

The band’s song came to a burgeoning end and melted into the next, which had a much slower tempo with a steady rhythm. Cullen watched the crowd shift from their dizzying spins and shakes to holding their partners close, swaying to the thrum of the bass. Neb longingly watched Leliana and Josephine hold each other and he decided that now was an appropriate time to take another grand leap. 

Wetting his lips, he took a hesitant step closer. Maker, she was distracting. He had to make a conscious effort to remember the script he'd planned out. Now it was time to focus. Now it was time to attempt the most daunting task of his life: flirting. 

“Dance with me?” he asked, anxiety clawing through his chest. 

* * *

_"I've never done anything like this," she_ _murmured_ _. "I can't. I_ _don't think—_ _"_  

 _"What age do you think we are living in? Do you assume he'd find your confession uncharacteristically wanton for a woman?_ _If you're under the impression that_ _he must make the first move, you'll probably be standing here alone all night."_  

 _"Oh, have some faith, Leliana!" Josephine hissed. The black beading on her floor-length_ _gown jingled when the hem brushed across the floor. A satin gloved hand reached for_ _Neb's_ _as a show of support. "But she may be right."_  

 _"I don't even know what I should say."_  

 _"You will." Her grey eyes widened with delighted surprise. "And you may have your chance now. We believe in you, so believe in yourself."_  

 _"Do not wait," Leliana said. "You were born under a winter moon. Winter is patient but in stillness_ _it suffers._ _To get what you want, you must b_ _e bold."_  

A few onlookers curiously watched him approach her with covetous interest, and it was easy to see why. His tall, lean body and silken hairstyle looked positively irresistible in a flawlessly tailored black tuxedo. Now Cullen’s golden brown eyes were so hopeful she could almost feel the weight of their attention on her. In her growing nervousness, she'd already downed a few glasses of wine after he dashed away from her. Leliana and Josephine told her to be bold, though brazenness was never her strong suit. Her current state suited her better: purely dumbstruck.  

He just asked her to dance.  

"Are you sure?" she asked. 

"I'm terrible." 

"What?" 

"I mean I'm sure," he cleared his throat. "But I _am_ terrible. At dancing." 

Void take him, that shyness was going to kill her. If she really wanted this, then she'd have to obey Josephine's orders. "I think you're lying. You have far too good of rhythm to be bad at dancing." 

A smile spilled across his face as he composed himself once again. His voice was lower when he spoke next, softer when he held out his hand. "And you look far too beautiful to be standing over to the side. Care to find out if I'm telling the truth?"  

Were they _flirting_?  

Neb looked across the dance floor to where her friends, the best-looking couple in Thedas, held each other passionately close. Their voices echoed in her ears: _b_ _e_ _bold_.  

"I think I'll take that bet," letting his long fingers intertwine with hers while he led her to an open spot on the dance floor. There was something so intimate about the way his hand slid across her side before it splayed out against her lower back. She rested a hand on his shoulder, firm and muscled underneath fitted seams. For a moment she felt a pang of guilt that she didn't take Josephine up on the shapewear. He was all hard lines against her, and she, plump and pliable flesh. Together, they looked like a stark contradiction. Then, he guided her with his hips, struggling to dodge her feet while maintaining his center of balance and the awkwardness of it distracted her. He let out a small embarrassed chuckle.  

"It seems you were telling the truth," she teased. 

"I always tried to live my life as an honest man, not a graceful one." 

"Good thing I have more than enough grace for the both of us." 

"It’s one of the many things I admire about you. Maybe someday I'll be able to emulate it." 

...They _were_ flirting!  

"Just don't try to dip me in these heels and we can pretend to be graceful all night," she said, partly in jest and partly as a guarantee. 

"Duly noted. Lovely party," he commented. "Even nicer than I expected." 

"It's all Josie. She volunteers on the board because she loves me and she's amazing." 

"Sounds like a great friend." Cullen's grip on her hand tightened as he spun her outward before pulling her back into the steps. 

"She's the best." He pulled her too hard and they collided, stumbling over the next few steps before he steadied her by pressing her tightly to him. She might also have been a little too tipsy to care if his feet stuttered to the tune. They were having _fun_ together. Maker, how long had it been since she'd last danced with someone like this? The two of them laughed—slowly, breathlessly, _easily_ , color high in their cheeks—until they found comfort in little half steps. 

"I don't know if I have anyone I could consider that close. Except..."  

That cutoff was maddening. She could feel the tension knot at his shoulders as he stammered, like he was searching for words. Her heart hammered hopefully at the thought of whose name he might say, threatening to leap fully from her chest if he didn't speak soon. "'Except'?" 

 _This could be it,_ she thought dizzily. 

"...My dog." 

 _Dammit_ _._ "Wait. You got a dog?!" 

"Met him as a stray down in South Reach." Neb followed his lead while they fell back in time with the music. "His name's Griffon." 

"Well then, now I can call you Dog Man _Official._ What's he like?" 

" _Enormous_ _,_ " he laughed again, more brash and husky than before and turned his gaze for a moment toward the band. The lead singer crooned about unrequited love accompanied by a somber saxophone. "You know, it should be you up there." 

"Oh, I don't think so." 

"Why not? Your voice is extraordinary." 

"I'm not quite interesting enough of a performer for the spotlight." 

"Yes, you are. Don't be so quick to downplay yourself like that." 

He'd never been this forthright or complimentary before. Cullen was always quiet, yet sometimes Neb could see that there were still flickering embers of a once blazing fire deep behind those molten eyes. The young hotshot police officer; a man who wouldn't have considered himself cerebral but impulsive—a man of action. It was fascinating to watch.  

 _Be bold,_ she thought again. Taking a risk, she gently lowered her head onto his shoulder. "You're not so terrible yourself. Maybe we should both be up there." 

If the way his arm gripped tighter at her waist was any indication, he liked that. A small victory. "Are you proposing a duet?" 

"Perhaps," she smiled, reveling in the sensation of being held. "We do sing quite well together." 

"I think so, too," he murmured in her ear. 

Blessed Andraste, the way the song swelled around them, the way the lights dimmed low, the way he clutched her to him made her feel...made her feel... 

She had lost her train of thought when she felt a familiar tapping; a very precise brushing of fingertips along her erect spine. 

"Cullen? Are you...practicing chords on my back?" 

"Oh, I guess I—sorry. It's become habit when I'm nervous," he said sheepishly. 

"Do I make you nervous?" 

"Yes." 

"...Oh." 

"No! I mean _no_ , it's just...I've..."  

"You've...?" 

"Neb, there's so much to say. I want...I want..." She felt the heavy rise and fall of his chest, taking deep stabilizing breaths. Neb met his eyes and cocked her head. He was panicked again, like she'd seen him before. The lead singer belted a final note which was met with a thundering applause from the partygoers around them. 

"Cullen, are you—" 

He set his jaw. "I have to go," he spoke lowly. "It's too crowded—I thought I could, but—I need—" 

 _I need to find us someplace quiet._ "Follow me," she said, leading him by their still-connected fingers. She caught Leliana and Josephine smiling at her in her peripheral before passing the donation table and guiding him down the hallway toward the restroom...only to be greeted by a line that may as well be a stalled locomotive. _No good_. 

"I can’t believe someone barred one of the toilet stalls closed with a mop and duct tape," said a disgruntled patron passing by. That would explain the wait, but Neb had a feeling she knew who the culprit was. And if she was right, then she had an idea of where they might be. 

"This way," she said, praying to the Maker that Cullen wasn't too overwhelmed to trust her. The concern she felt was enough to send her thoughts scattering to the wind, and she needed to keep her wits right where they were. 

"All right," he responded. 

Turning further down the hallway proved fruitful, as the door to the maintenance room stood slightly ajar to the sound of giggles within.  

"Sera!" Neb scolded. "Breaking and entering, really?" 

The elf radiated smugness while she armored her slim wrists in rolls of duct tape. A bright green bottle of Paragon Braska's All-in-One Miracle Adhesive protruded from one suit pocket and a bottle of wine from the other. 

"It was just a bit of fun, yeah? Beardy started being boring—and everyone else was _already_ boring!" 

Neb huffed in frustration and grabbed a pair of scissors from a hook on the wall. "Here. Take these and go undo...whatever it is you did in the bathroom. And _don't_ let me catch you wandering back in here." 

Hazel eyes darted to Cullen, then to her, then back to Cullen, realization washing over her face. "Ohohohohoo! I can't believe it! You two are gonna f—" 

" _Now_ , Sera. Please." 

She winked sardonically and made a great show of placing the wine on the shelf. "All right, Miss Trevelyan." Once the supplies were restored to their rightful toolbox, they heard her mumble under her breath: "Beardy is gonna piss himself when I tell him." 

...Then they were alone. 

 _What do I do now?_ she thought. Nothing prepared her for this situation, for how arduous finding the right moment could _really_ be. Anxiety raked through her gut, so she reached for the bottle of wine left behind by Sera, unscrewed the cap, took a long, hefty swig and assessed the room. It was a cramped space—certainly lacking romantic ambience—composed of painted white brick and a grey concrete floor lined with shaggy mops, a vacuum and assorted gadgets. There wasn't much openness to move about comfortably, so she stood as far from Cullen as she could to ensure that his overstimulation didn't transition into claustrophobia. She watched his body soften while he leaned up against the chilly stone. Slowly, he began to relax.  

Neb cleared her throat. "Are you feeling better?" 

"All thanks to you," he said, looking relieved with a tint of regret. "I'm sorry, I didn't—" 

"Cullen, there's nothing to apologize for. I'm glad I could help." 

The band's muffled music sounded farther away from the confines of the closet. She tried to form more sentences, something else comforting, but couldn't think of anything appropriate to fill the silence. 

"You're downplaying yourself again," he said.  

"What?" 

"Once again you acted swiftly and saved me from a panic attack. Kindness is such second nature that it doesn't occur to you how much effort that level of compassion really takes." 

"I...thank you, I suppose." 

"I should be thanking _you_. A younger me would have interpreted that kindness as pity, but I know better now. That, I owe to you."  

This kind of dialogue made her nervous. It almost sounded like the perfect leighway into an uncomfortable speech about just how _nice_  she is; how she reminds him so much of some matronly figure he once knew; how she was so far away from fuckable that it was best to jump ship now to save herself the humiliation. She was about to beg him to just _say it_ when he also spoke. 

"Cullen, I—" 

"Neb, from—" 

"Oh, you go first." 

"Actually, why don't you?" 

 _No time for self-doubt._ _Be bold_. _"_ Cullen, now that we're alone, there's something important I have to confess." 

"By all means, I'm listening." 

"...I can't be your music therapist anymore," she said solemnly. 

His body went very, very still. "I see." 

"It's not because I don't enjoy our time together! Really, it's the opposite." He cocked his head, but waited for her to continue. The words tumbled out incoherently. "Cullen, I have really come to...care about you. More than I should; more than I can say, and I know that I probably wasn't what you were hoping for when I walked into that coffee shop. But if you were willing to...at least consider...I think you and I could be really, really..."  

Andraste's ass, her dress was too tight. Her _skin_ was too tight. And she was on fire. But she also had chills. It was too loud. Too quiet. Everything was disorder. She did it, she said it, but had she crossed the line? Why wasn't he saying anything?! She could feel her cheeks color under his intent gaze. He stood there, almost statuesque, as if he were a mechanical wind-up toy that finally ran out of fuel—which would be just her luck if he was. 

"Cullen? Did I...?" 

"On the contrary. You were more than I ever hoped for." He finally spoke, reaching to brush his fingers against her cheek. "That's what I thought. Neb, I was drawn to you from the moment I first saw you walk through the door. When you smiled, my heart pounded so hard I was pretty sure the couple at the table next to me could hear it. And I have spent this entire evening trying to find the right moment to tell you, to beg _you_  to give me another chance. And if you did, I would spend every day trying to make sure that smile never faded." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Maker's breath, I had this all planned out. I'm not nearly as eloquent when I improvise." 

 _Josie is not going to believe me when I tell her._  "You're serious? Even after I yelled at you and stormed out?" 

"That solidified my affection, I think. You were so _passionate._  And it was my fault. I was ignorant. Misguided. But that was a turning point; a flint spark. I think I'd been numb to everything but routine for so long that I never thought that there could be an alternative. Now, I want to walk a better path. I want to be a better man. I want..." 

"You want...?" 

The silence was like rushing rapids trying to break through a dam. Neb was certain the closet could have been completely submerged in water by the time he spoke. 

" _You_." 

Neb took a step closer, tipping her face to his. "Say it again." 

Cullen sucked in a breath and she couldn't get over the look of unmistakable joy on his face. The way he looked at her made her feel so _beautiful_. 

" _I want you_. I have _always_ wanted you. If I could say more...Maker's breath, I'm dreadful with words." 

She was already a little woozy from the wine, but _Maker_. Hearing that made her knees wobble. Neb surged forward with a desperate gasp, cupping both side of his face, her lips meeting his. Cullen welcomed her with a guttural groan and she arched into him. It had been so long since she felt this kind of desire but the sensation of his mouth nearly made her leap out of her own skin. Like a lightning strike in a storm of _need_ , all while the words sang in her head over and over: _I want you. I want_ you.  

She broke the kiss even thought it almost pained her to. His head followed her as she pulled back, his eyelids fluttering like tiny wings before he slowly opened them, revealing liquid gold irises nearly swallowed by inky black. 

"I want you too," she said, her voice just above a whisper.  

"Thank the Maker, or else that would have been awkward." 

"Oh, just shut up and kiss me again." 

 _Want, want,_ _want_ _,_ her mind repeated. _I want you._  

She wanted him more than she wanted to breathe. She wanted to give in to the impulse of desire and _own_ _it_ for once in her life. Tonight, she had this man pinned against the wall, swallowing his moans and succumbing to the velvety glide of his tongue _—_ _fuck, that tongue,_ slick and hot and fierce against hers. She wanted to feel it against her flushed neck, over her breasts, teasing its way down lower, lower, _lower_... 

Cullen was occupied with roaming his hands over her back. He had the calloused fingers of a new guitarist, the roughness stoking a fire in her as they traced over her shoulder blades when they were startled by what sounded like the punt of a wine bottle knocking outside.

"Oi! Have you started knockin' boots yet or what? Beardy and I are placin' bets!" Sera pounded at the door. 

"Oh, Andraste's ass," Neb cussed, clutching her proverbial pearls in surprise. "I got so caught up I almost forgot there was an entire party milling about."

"And I was really starting to enjoy myself for the first time this evening,” he sighed.

"I'm not hearing a no in there!" Sera pounded again. 

Neb pouted. “You mean you didn’t enjoy the dance?”

He scoffed. “If _you_ enjoyed it I might ask you to question your taste in dance partners!”

“Hey! I think you did really well, don’t you?"

He cupped her flushed cheek and traced her swollen mouth with his thumb. She leaned into his touch, savoring the warmth of his hand. He was so _gentle_ it damn near broke her heart. “Do you want to know what I’m thinking?” he asked, softly. 

“…What?” 

The gnarled scar on his upper lip contorted with a sly grin. “I’m thinking that my place is only a few blocks away. If you'd like to talk in private, what do you say we grab our coats?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! These two nerds mean the world to me. And if you can't tell, I'm also obsessed with Sera and Blackwall. 
> 
> Just a couple more chapters to go!  
> 


	18. Slow - NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone in Cullen's apartment, this is where all the real magic of their relationship happens.

He had caged her against the back of the elevator the second the bronze door sealed shut, neither of them careful nor sober enough to prevent their bodies from making contact. One of his hands cupped base of her scalp while the other was flush against the wall behind her for balance, bearing most of his weight and causing his arm to shake. Their eyes were closed and their chests touched, though he deliberately kept his hips from brushing against hers—not that she would mind if he did.

Cullen smelled faintly of shaving soap: cedar and cypress with a hint of something irrevocably masculine, like well-worn leather. Combined with the dizzying juxtaposition of his soft lips and the chafing of his fresh stubble against her chin, it was the best combination of sensory inputs possible.

She inhaled deeply through her nose, savoring a much-needed breath of oxygen without interrupting her mouth on his, and felt his hand move from the wall to her cheek, a long set of fingers traced down to her jaw as if committing it to memory. They trailed down to her lapel, the forefinger playing with the buttons on her trench coat, and then slowly but deliberately down to her side, his thumb intentionally missing the swell of her breast. Finally, his hand rested on her waist, the palm steady against the curve of her hip.

With his hand no longer bracing against the wall, there wasn’t any leverage keeping his hips from hers. Feeling his want expanding against her stoked a fire in her stomach as she curved an arm below him to grip his ass.

While paying her respects to his backside, Neb seized the opportunity to pull his hips flush against hers, his arousal now fully evident. He rolled them into her and she couldn’t decide what was more delicious: the feeling of his hardness pushing insistently against her, the accompanying groan that came from him that made her stomach tense, or just the feeling of his muscles tightening and relaxing when he pressed himself toward her.

She gasped, pulling her head away from their kiss. He followed her, loosening his grip on her head to allow it the movement it wanted. Cullen adjusted his grasp so that in throwing her head back, his hand protected her from making impact with the elevator wall, she noted with a flood of affection. He allowed her to concentrate on catching her breath and instead moved to her throat, his teeth gently scraping against her skin.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he whispered, drawing his lips toward her ear. "You're really here."

"I am," she murmured, in breathless appreciation. She _was_ here. This _was_ happening. And it was better than anything her imagination ever conjured.

She arched her back slightly, angling her hips as best she could through the tightness of her dress to get just the right brush against him, heat accumulating torturously between her thighs. The rush of air against her throat and the tremor that coursed through his body indicated he was just as lost in lust as she was.

The elevator doors opened with a _ding_ and Cullen pulled himself off of her begrudgingly. "We're here," he said, taking her hand in his.

He guided her down a toile covered hallway lit with antique sconces and lined in plush emerald carpeting. The structure was probably a lavish hotel once upon a time, with its marble welcome desk catering to elite clientele – though she supposed that hadn't really changed. While she understood Leliana's taste in fineries and expensive housing, all of the splendor of this space seemed as far from Cullen's humble realm of interests as it could get.

That didn't stop her jaw from dropping when Cullen unlocked the door and welcomed her into his home. She wasn’t surprised in the least to see it so sparsely decorated. The _clack clack_ of her heels echoed across the wooden floors. It was comical how his slim, modern black sofa looked shrunken at the center of the room beneath vaulted ceilings, but her attention was immediately drawn to the _windows_.

"What a view!" She gasped, rushing to see the glimmering skyline outside wall-to-ceiling glass. Downtown Haven twinkled around them along with a light snow flurry. "I've never seen the city from this height before."

"I'm glad you like it.” Cullen met her by the windows and helped her out of her coat, carefully draping it over the arm of the sofa. He seemed completely unaffected by her distraction, even if it was a detour from the passion they shared in the elevator. “Though while you’re here, there is something else I wanted to show you. A gift, really. To say thank you."

 _A gift? For me?_ “For what?”

“For opening my eyes.”

She followed him to the white media console on the wall opposite his color coordinated bookcase. On it sat not a television, but an old record player. Its tattered frame clashed against his clean, contemporary white veneer, but she would never scoff at one’s love of vinyl.

“That’s a really beautiful model,” she commented.

“I found it after visiting my sister in South Reach,” Cullen said, kneeling down to open the cabinet door below. “There was this little antique shop near where I stopped to buy supplies for Griffon. What _really_ drew my attention was this, which they had tucked behind a glass case.”

Neb gasped when he revealed the album: a simple grayscale photograph of a slender woman in a slinky dress with a severe mouth and elaborately braided brunette hair. She stood under a spotlight in front of velvet curtains, cupping the steel of her microphone like it was her lover’s face. The cover was a little worn around the edges, but otherwise in excellent condition.

“ _Je Suis l'Élue_?! By Maryden Halewell? Her rarest album! Maker, Cullen, this is the original Orlesian release—do you know how much this is _worth_?”

“I have _some_ idea,” he smiled. “I noticed you had a fondness for her among your collection and I thought…I wanted to show you my appreciation somehow. No matter what happened tonight.”

“You mean…?”

“The album is yours.”

Her head spun. This was too generous. The whole night was already more exhilarating than she’d ever wanted but _this_? She choked a sob and concentrated on containing her tears. She’d come to know Cullen’s stubbornness well enough over the last few months, but also his vulnerability. He’d insist she keep it and to adamantly refuse would demolish him.

“Cullen…thank you. This is…I really don’t know what to say.” Neb inhaled deeply, still trying not to cry.

“No, thank _you_.” He brushed his knuckles along her bare arm and leaned in to place a kiss on her forehead. “Would you like to listen it?”

“ _Yes_! May I?”

“By all means.”

She carefully removed the record from its sleeve, handling it as if it could fracture at the slightest touch before lifting the needle and settling it onto the turntable. It began to spin, filling the room with that irreplaceable crackle she loved so much before a cornet began to bellow. Neb didn't speak Orlesian, but Maryden's voice transcended all language. The song was somber and breathy, every note teeming with emotional pain.

"She'd just lost her father before she wrote this," Neb said, closing her eyes. "His death influenced a lot of her early work."

“She healed herself with music. It’s lovely,” he agreed, hugging her from behind. She turned in his arms to face him, clasping her hands behind his neck. They held each other while the orchestra picked up, carrying Maryden's voice as she belted out a long final note. There were no curious onlookers this time, only the two of them swaying gently side to side, each reveling in the closeness of the other. Between the city lights, the music, the fading effervescence of her wine fog and the warmth of his embrace, she’d never experienced anything more romantic.

“This is really nice,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. She felt Cullen plant another kiss on the top of her head.

“Tonight doesn’t have to go any further than this, Neb. If you want. I'd be content to just hold you.”

_If you want._

Maker, he was so considerate it would be her undoing. She raised her head and she realized then, belatedly, that his face held an expression that was probably only reserved for her. His eyes were warm and softened, gazing at her with what she could only describe as a sincere tenderness; his lips half-quirked in a wry smile. Neb brought her own lips to his and he angled his head instinctively, as if he’d already mapped the pattern of their mouths. There was another world in his—hot and exquisite—and she couldn’t resist exploring it with curious sweeps of her tongue.

They hadn’t given up on the gentleness of their previous kisses. Cullen still lightly traced the contours of her lips with his own, insistent, but not demanding, though there were indicators that merely holding one another was becoming increasingly difficult for them both. Her grip on his neck tightened, his breathing became more ragged. She felt electrified, renewed. It had been so, _so_ long and tonight with Cullen just felt so, _so_ right.

“And what if I want more?” she breathed.

A soft chuckled rumbled from his chest. “Then there was something else I wanted to say.”

“What’s that?”

“The windows continue into the bedroom.”

It was hypnotic the way he transitioned from shy and stoic to seductive and scintillating so seamlessly. He took a deliberate step backward and began loosening his silk tie. Neb toed out of her shoes and adjusted to the sensation of feeling infinitely shorter without them. True, she was still above average height for a human female, but it was impossible to not feel her body shrink as he slowly shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket and tossed it nonchalantly over her coat. The shimmery satin sent them in a liquid slide from the arm of his sofa and onto the cushions like two spent lovers. _Maker's breath_ , every nerve in her body craved him.

He leaned down to capture her mouth with his again when Neb pulled away. In all the stress of preparing for the evening, she just remembered that there was a vital piece of equipment that she left out of her purse.

"What?" He raised his eyebrows, concerned.

"I forgot. Do you have, um... _protection_?"

He chuckled softly. She was so fond of that laugh. "Yes. I didn't want to be presumptuous about tonight, but I bought some this afternoon."

"Oh, you magnificent man!" Relief washed over her and she pulled him to her for a quick kiss. "Show me these other windows, then."

"Right this way," he grinned.

It pained her to stop Maryden's album, but she also couldn't risk it getting damaged so she gingerly lifted the needle and eagerly followed him around the corner to where he slept. It was another oversized space with more modern, open shelving, sparse décor and a low-set bed that contained a very, _very_ large grey dog.

"You! Out!" Cullen ordered. Griffon, who had sprawled himself entirely across the down comforter now scrambled to his feet, glided onto the hardwood and marched into the hallway with the dedication of a soldier rather than a lumbering canine.

"Wow, he _is_ enormous!" Neb said, watching the dog parade past.

"He doesn't know it, either," he griped.

"Why Cullen, haven't you told him?"

He gave an exaggerated shrug, stepping toward her. "Didn't have the heart."

He reached out to cup her face, smiling gently, when she felt that intrusive thought slither its way into her skull. _Sure, he looks happy now but you know that it’s all over once he sees you naked_ , it hissed. _Once that gut of yours pops out—_

He quirked an eyebrow when she drew back. “Is something wrong? Did I—?”

“No, not at all!”

“Is it because of…”

Now it was her turn to feel confused. “Because of what?”

He raised his hand and ran two fingers along the pale scar above his lip. "...Does it bother you? Maker, I feel foolish for even asking."

She blinked. That gnarled line was so cemented in his features that she'd hardly even noticed it. "Cullen, of course not! It's a part of who you are."

"Because there are more," he said, undoing the buttons of his shirt. "Scars, I mean. I just—I want you to be prepared." The white garment drifted to the floor and the white layering shirt followed immediately after it in one quick pull.

At first glance, he was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. A little underweight, but beautiful. Broad shoulders blended into a firm chest and a taut, lean stomach coated in pale blond hair that continued downward, she noted as her eyes dipped to his still-clothed hips. Maker's breath, Elandrin could never hold a candle to him. But there was more. There was always more to Cullen than that. To brush him off as simply beautiful was a grave injustice and astoundingly myopic. Peering closer, she could see light speckles blemishing his arms and torso—a shard of glass struck him here, a bullet of rubble there. Each told their own story but together they formed a constellation of undoubtable anguish where his protective vest had failed him. It occurred to her that she'd only ever seen him with his entire upper body covered.

No, only a fool would see him for his looks. Only a fool would desire for his golden eyes to gaze upon them hungrily and miss the way they scrupulously shadowed by the weight of his conscience and then visibly brightened solely by his sheer, undeterred will. Only a fool would crave the touch of his hands, his long sinewy fingers, and not admire the way he used them to conceal his tension—concentrating all of his discomfort into a tight fist to prevent a breakdown. Only a fool would appreciate his perfect posture without admiring how on even the hardest days he made damn sure he stood tall due to his undaunted pride. This was a man who battled his demons. This was a man who survived. This was also a man who felt just as diffident as she did.

"Oh, Cullen, I..."

He turned and she felt her eyebrows raise even higher. The skin across his left shoulder blade was disfigured; pink and puckered in some parts, brown and leathery in others, the darkest segments interlocking like continents on a weathered map.

 _Burned_.

"Oh, Cullen," she repeated.

"I've never shown anyone before," he smiled softly, voice shaky. "You're the first person I've ever truly felt comfortable with."

"Is it painful?"

"Sometimes."

"May I?"

He nodded. "Gently."

She touched him with the very tips of her fingers, delicate and feather-light, just as she would with the fragile strings on her harp. She traced the outline experimentally. The skin felt rough and tight, almost like a callus, and hot to the touch. On impulse, she leaned forward, placing a tentative kiss there. She heard his breath catch and kissed him again. Neb glided her fingers over the indentations of his ribs, wrapping her arms around him while she continued to caress her mouth over his back, following the path her fingertips had blazed. One kiss for every minute of pain he’d suffered, punctuating each with a soft sigh and a puff of warm breath. She felt him shiver involuntarily.

Cullen spun around, leaning in to kiss her hard, moaning into her mouth, raking his nails through her hair and ultimately pulling her face closer to his. One might even call it desperation, but Neb understood his eagerness.

Not desperate; _relieved_.

Validated.

Accepted.

 _But does he accept you? Does he really? Can you be sure?_ That pestering voice whispered in her ear again. The question leaped out of her before she had a chance to catch it:

"Cullen," she mumbled into his mouth, "why me?"

He pulled away from her mid-kiss. Based on his stunned expression, he was trying to gather his thoughts amidst a case of emotional whiplash. "You'll have to forgive me, but I don't know what you mean."

She shook her head. "Just forget it. Forget I said anything."

"Neb, is something wrong?" he said, stern and serious. "I want this, but it doesn't mean _anything_ unless you want it, too."

Of _course_ she wanted this—right?

She was accustomed to the lights off; a quick take-what-she-could-get fuck in the dark, clothing removal optional. Right now she faced a man who revealed his deepest insecurities to her, body and soul. All he asked of her was the same. Looking at him, all her fears felt so trivial by comparison but years of conditioning and self-doubt were a heady mix.

"Cullen, I want this as much as you do, but I…I’m also not used to this. It’s been a long time for me, and…”

“It’s also been a long time for me.”

"There are these little nagging thoughts that nip at me and…sometimes I can't ignore them."

"What do they say?"

She sighed, looking down. "That someone like you wouldn't want to be seen with someone like me. It's stupid, I know. I'm being ridiculous. It just came out and now I've gone and humiliated myself. Just...just forget I said anything."

He cupped her cheek again, smoothing his thumb over her skin. "You're not being ridiculous. I can't tell you how many times I've thought the same thing—only in reverse."

"...Really?"

" _Really_. We're a lot alike in many ways. Except I have a habit of being menacingly dark and brooding with the appeal of a rusted tin can and you light up everything you touch. Like when I first saw you—I know I said it already but Maker's breath, you were enchanting."

"Oh, shut up!" She balked his compliment but he was looking at her in that warm way again. It made her feel so appreciated, so beautiful—so heartrendingly beautiful. "I happen to find tin cans to be very appealing."

"You hold me in too high esteem." He got a particular glint in his eye when he was trying at humor. "And you know I work in human resources, so think of it this way: I wouldn't have chosen you as a candidate if I didn't think you could get the job done."

Neb laughed in a single obnoxious bark. "That's...oddly quite sexy."

"Oh, Maker, you _must_ be tired if that worked! Perhaps we should put a pin in it for tonight?"

 _I could love this man_ , she thought. A part of her wanted to tell him that. All of her wanted _him_.

“No," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I think what I need is just for you to go slow."

"Slow," he said, kissing her tenderly, undemanding. "Slow is good."

"What you're doing right now feels really nice,” she breathed, his strong hands gently rubbing over her arms and shoulders.

"What about this? Is this okay?" She tingled when his mouth, hot and wet and gruff with stubble, kissed her neck.

"Uh-huh." Neb tilted her head to give him better access and he took it as permission to lick and suckle his way down to her nape, caressing his lips over the indentation above her clavicles. _Maker_ , did he ever know how to tease.

His hands slid up her back and he pinched the top of her zipper, voice just above a whisper, hot and tantalizing in her ear. "Is this okay?"

“… _Yes_ ,” she said, her heart pounding.

He pulled it down ever-so-gingerly, breaking up the tightness of the material, revealing more of herself to him when she felt an abrupt tug at the seam.

_Not again. No. This never would have happened if you had listened to Josie!_

“It, um…appears to be stuck,” Cullen said, peering behind her.

"Here, let me—"

"I think I got it..."

"Maybe I can—"

_Rip!_

Neb heard rather than felt the thick fabric burst and tear clean away from the center of her back. No, not torn—more like shredded. The frayed threads tickled her sensitive skin. There was no repairing it now.

"Oh, Maker, I am _so, so sorry_!" Cullen said, eyes wide.

“No, it’s—it’s fine,” she sighed. “It’s not like it was something I could wear to work. It was just…really expensive, unfortunately.”

“I will replace it, I _swear_!”

“Cullen,” she shushed. “You can _relax_.” She stood on her toes to kiss him, trailing her tongue over his bottom lip before pulling his chin down to part his lips and plunging her tongue inside. She drew her hand up toward his jaw, tracing the angular contours and relishing the rough catch of his facial hair before sweeping down to his throat. She felt his breathing shift and his blood quicken at his pulse. One arm snaked around her waist while the other snarled in her hair.

It was so easy to get lost in him; in the way he held her like she’d disappear if he let go; in the heat of his skin. Neb wanted to feel more, so she reached up and pulled the straps of her dress down. The tear didn't complete the length of the zipper, which meant for too narrow of an opening to get the dress past the tops of her breasts—not to mention her hips and thighs.

"I'm still stuck."

"Let me see," he said, sitting in front of her on both knees. He hummed in contemplation before balling either side of the seam in his fists. His eyes rose up to meet hers. "Are you ready?"

"Ready for wha—ah!" In one lightning fast pull, Cullen tore the dress further apart with a rip so loud she squeaked in surprise.

"Better?" His lips curled into a smug grin.

"Show-off.”

“Only practical,” he retorted, peeling the fabric open to trace his knuckles down her spine. “Is this okay?”

“ _More_ than okay,” she sighed. If only she had words for just how more-than-okay it was. She wanted to say something smart, but she couldn’t figure out how to give voice to the way his smirk warmed when he looked up at her. Her voice all but died when that gaze greedily dipped lower—just for a moment—to her cleavage.

No, there were no words for that. Action would have to serve instead.

She continued pulling the dress down: off her arms, past the swell of her padded bra and down over her soft stomach. Cullen tugged the form-fitting fabric down the rest of the way and when it formed a black pool at her feet she held her breath.

While that garment left little to the imagination, her legs still trembled at revealing so much skin. There was little to hide behind now. He must have sensed it, because he began lovingly tracing his hands over her thighs, dimpled though they were, and placed a gentle kiss on her belly. "Is this okay?"

"Yes," she murmured, nervous.

His eyes and hands continued to roam over her skin in a manner that could only be described as worshipful—palms flat, smoothing over every inch of her body. He stopped when his eye caught the faint but long indented scar above her right hip.

“What happened here?” he queried.

“Appendix.”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

The pitiful whimper he made helped bring her to smile. It felt almost sinful to call it that. A _whimper_ often connoted weakness, and in her eyes this man was anything but. Yet there he was, on his knees, fervently kissing and doting the result of an infected unnecessary digestive organ when his own body had been etched with true trauma. If she didn’t already know how much he valued his dignity she might even call him adorable.

His fingers stroked up her back and landed at her bra clasp, holding them there for a moment. “…Is this okay?”

“Let me.” She took him by the forearms and helped him to stand. Neb stepped out of her dress and back away from Cullen, motioning for him to stay put. Her throat felt hoarse from nerves, but she gazed into his eyes and that made it a little better. He looked at her in that way that only he could, in a way that she was pretty sure by this point meant gratitude.

  _Be bold._ She repeated her tiny mantra again as she undid the clasp and let her not-so-tiny breasts tumble free.

Cullen was a quiet man, and one of few utterances. She’d never have thought him capable of making the sound that escaped him then, and by his expression she’d guess he hadn’t either.

“Maker’s breath,” he rasped, closing the gap between them. “You are, without a sliver of a doubt, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

He’d lost some of his restraint then, pulling her to him so her naked skin brushed against the hair on his chest. Shuddering, she moaned into his mouth as he kissed her hard. Neb arched into him, feeling alight and electrified—any previous inhibition long forgotten.

“I’m sorry!” He stopped. “Is this okay?”

“Cullen, make love to me.”

He smiled, brushed her cheek and trailed his fingers down the delicate column of her throat. “Lie down,” he whispered.

It wasn’t surprising to find that he preferred a firm mattress as she settled onto his perfectly fluffed pillows. The room was bathed in a soft silvery glow from the city lights outside, but it was bright enough to watch his every movement, from the unbuckling of his belt, to the removal of his pants and socks, to the tight strain of his...

_Oh, Maker._

He was impressive in every sense of the word. Neb watched the muscles in his toned thighs flex and give as he strode to the bedside and stretched himself out on his side next to her.

“Are you comfortable?”

“You don’t have to worry so mu—ahh!” His mouth surprised her when its heat enveloped the crown of her breast. He drew a hand down her neck, over her collarbone and onto the other. Now it was _her_ turn to whimper as she succumbed to lips and tongue and teasing swipes of his thumb. If the moan he made when she arched toward him was any indication, he was more than pleased to oblige.  

The hand drew lower, tracing her bellybutton and she hissed when it just missed her aching center in order to stroke its way down her inner thigh. Neb had always considered herself rather level-headed, and that part of her told her to just relax and let him taunt her, but the now-tiled part of her was barely containing the need to grab him by his wrist, rip off her last remaining article of clothing, plunge his fingers into her and curl them until her thighs shook and her eyes rolled into the back of her head.

But she was Neb Trevelyan, so she settled for a modest tug on his thick head of hair with the hope that it would encourage him lower.

And he was Cullen Rutherford, so he followed her direction.

He released her nipple from his mouth and climbed on top of her, pressing his lips to hers sweetly before leaning down her body. He was between her legs now, toying with the band on her underwear. She could feel his every slow, even breath against the apex of her thighs, which caused her body to tense in anticipation.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes. _Please_.”

Hooking his thumbs under the fabric, he freed her from the last piece of coverage she had all while leaving conciliatory kisses down the side of one leg. Sitting up on her elbows, she laid bare before him, cellulite, stomach rolls, stretch marks and all.

Yet she was too distracted by the ravenous look in his amber eyes to care.

Cullen kissed his way up the other leg, this time placing warm, open mouth kisses along her inner thigh which caused her to shudder at his stubble scraping audibly against her soft skin. He flashed a proud grin at that.

“Is this okay?” he asked again, wrapping his strong arms around each of her legs, using the breadth of his shoulders to spread them _wide_. Her hips hitched compulsorily toward his mouth but he held very still, exhaling hot, moist promises directly over her most sensitive point. She gasped and he luxuriated in her sense of urgency, massaging her muscles in a slow, tantalizing rhythm. She’d been so distracted that she forgot that he awaited confirmation.

“Yes.”

He moaned against her, drawing his face oh-so-very close. Another kiss on her inner thigh. Another kiss on the other. Then, he drew his tongue along the length of her in one languid stroke.

If he hadn’t had an iron grip on her lower body, she probably would have flown clean off the bed.

He lavished her slowly, swirling his tongue and gauging her reactions—lingering whenever she showed a particular desperation in her hips. She tried to speed up their exchange by bucking, so he pressed her down harder and left her vulnerable to his assault.

“There! Right there!” He finally circled her clit and her hands shot to his hair, raking her fingers along his scalp and holding him down. Then he chuckled, sending a pleasurable vibration through her slickness. Adjusting his grip, he used his thumbs to open her to him further while alternating between deep massaging strokes and frenzied circles, stimulating all of her, making her back arch almost in two.

Then he took that bundle of nerves between his lips and sucked.

“Cullen,” she groaned. Her breathing had gone ragged, tight, strained, _desperate_ and she grasped at anything, clutching at the sheets until her fingers blanched. Her thighs shook. He still held her firmly, giving her much-needed stability as she wildly rocked against him.

When she came apart she wailed, tossing her head back, digging her shoulder blades into the mattress but he didn’t relent—not until she pulled at his head, not until she pleaded. Even then, he brought her down slowly and allowed her to relax, nuzzling and kissing her inner thigh before resting his cheek against her.

Neb’s body eventually stilled, sated and pliant, her heart pounding in her ears while her breathing slowed. Cullen said nothing, but climbed back up her body to scatter her cheeks, chin and forehead with gentle kisses, plucking a strand of hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear.

“You are absolutely stunning—you know that?” he said softly.

The weight of him on her was intoxicating. She ran her hands down the plane of his abdomen, relishing the hard outlines of his muscles, stopping just at the hem of his last stitch of clothing.

“Please,” she begged.

He smiled and leaned over her to reach for the drawer on his bedside table, pulling out a recognizable foil packet. Sitting up, he freed himself and cast his underwear aside.

“And you really are magnificent,” she added as he rolled the condom on.

He settled on top of her again and kissed her deeply. Neb always believed that the universe was a beautiful place, that the Maker designed everything to operate together seamlessly. If she wasn’t a believer before, she certainly would be once she felt the way his body glided on top of hers.

It was perfect.

She wrapped her arms around his back, consciously avoiding the burn scar and let him adjust her legs so they hugged his hips, her feet dangling in mid-air.

Cullen angled his head to kiss her slowly, trailing down her jaw and to her neck. One arm bore all of his weight while the other positioned himself after teasingly tracing up and down her core and coating himself with wetness.

“Is this okay?” he asked again.

The liquid gold of his irises were drowned out by inky black, yet there was also a earnest brightness in his gaze, full of wonder and adoration. She couldn’t speak. She merely nodded.

They pressed foreheads while he slid into her at an agonizingly slow pace, giving her plenty of time to stretch and envelop him. _Fuck_ , it had been too long. She concentrated on relaxing until he hilted in her and their hips met and he made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a growl.

To reiterate: it was _perfect_.

He drew out and pumped into her again with enough force that she cried out. His thrusts were slow—maddeningly, ecstatically slow, her silken flesh undulating along with him until she was able to match his pace. Cullen buried his head in the crook of her neck and her hands found themselves nestled in his hair.  His breath was hot against her shoulder, punctuated by low grunts. Just _hearing_ the sounds Cullen made while in pleasure was more than she could ever ask for, but to _feel_ him, to be synced with him, to be joined with a cadence not unlike a sweet and somber duet…Maker. He’d had her strung taught like a guitar string and knew exactly how to make her sing. Her lower stomach coiled with a familiar electrifying tension as his chiseled form drove into her again and _again_.

A shiver ran through her, causing her thighs to squeeze him tighter, to pull him into her closer. It changed the angle just enough that every thrust brushed against her clit and filled her completely.

“Cullen, I’m—!” She crested again and writhed underneath him, gasping and panting, her breasts pressed hard against his chest, the two of them crashing into each other like opposing wave fronts.

Neb knew he was close when his breathing got deeper; when the muscles in his hips tensed.  

“Look at me. Neb, look at me, please,” he pleaded. Their eyes met, he groaned her name and she watched ecstasy pour over him.

She hugged him to her tightly and felt his rapid heartbeat harmonizing with hers. They finally let go when their hips grew tired and his arms began to shake. They were collapsed side by side, both feeling tired and deliciously sore, staring up at the ceiling when Neb let out a gleeful giggle. It felt almost sacrilegious after the passion they’d just shared, but her joy wouldn’t be contained. It felt like freedom; a euphoria made all the more precious by its ephemeral nature.

What she didn’t fully expect was for Cullen to join in with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really happy with how this chapter turned out, and I rarely feel that way. Hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did. These two will end me.
> 
> Only two more chapters to go!


	19. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, there's nothing quite like the passion of the honeymoon phase, is there?

Ever since Kirkwall, Cullen had a complicated relationship with the Maker. As he laid broken in a hospital bed, the lone survivor, he felt condemned; that he’d been strewn so far from lightness that there would never be salvation for him. Whenever his mother felt at her most crestfallen, she prayed. 

He remembered her kneeling before the idol statue in their dining room, hands clasped above her head in penance, reciting her favorite Chant from Trials: 

 

 _Maker, my enemies are abundant._  

 _Many are those who rise up against me._  

 _But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_  

 _Should they set themselves against me._  

 

He and the Maker hadn’t spoken for some time, yet last night, when his body rocked against hers, the soft give of her molding to his frame, he was struck with a compulsion to pray. As she trembled and twisted on his tongue, the broken, angry man within him felt a thankfulness he hadn’t experienced in years. With every kiss he was thankful for the nape of her neck, with each caress he was thankful for the sound of her sighs.  

Neb, whose honeyed voice sang his name. 

Neb, whose passion and bravery inspired him every day. 

Neb, who had the most perfect pair of breasts he’d ever seen. 

His cock twitched at the memory of her sprawled on his mattress, her back arched, breathing ragged, hair mussed around her head, her nipples contracted into dusty-pink peaks, hips rolling wildly— _fuck_. Every inch of her amazed him. 

A part of him was tempted to reach for her again, to wake her up with his thumb gently toying with the bundle of nerves between her flawless thighs. He had to resist the urge to lose control and plunge himself inside of her. She’d be so sweet, so tight, so wet, gasping in one sharp note when she welcomed him deep within her lush, silken body. The other part of him wanted to rope his arm around her curves and pull her tightly to his chest so he could nestle his face in her wavy chestnut hair and remind her of just how void-ridden beautiful she was. 

He opened his eyes to the grey winter morning haze and rolled over only to find the other half of the bed empty. His stomach lurched in a fit of panic. _Please no, Maker, no. Did she leave?_   

He tore through his drawer for a pair of lounge pants and made a quick inventory of his bedroom. The tattered remains of her dress were still pooled on the floor, as was her bra, and her shoes rested by the door. Unless she’d wanted to make a quick enough of an escape that she risked walking home barefoot and naked in the dead of winter, he had a feeling he knew where to find her.  

His body relaxed when he turned into the living room and saw Neb leaning on the windows, wearing nothing but her black panties and…his shirt. His white dress shirt from the night before. Maker’s breath, Neb Trevelyan was wearing _his_ shirt. 

She watched the early morning bustle of downtown, smiling softly, arms crossed, a hand supporting her chin. Her hair was all matted and her eye makeup had smeared a little down her cheeks.  

He’d never stop thinking it: she was the most fucking exquisite woman he’d ever seen. 

She didn’t acknowledge him as he approached her, but she leaned against him when he wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her from behind. Their bodies fit together seamlessly.  

“Good morning,” he said, planting a kiss on her temple. 

“Good morning. I hope you don’t mind I borrowed this, but since I didn’t have anything else to wear…” 

It was too tight to button closed so the garment draped open, just barely covering the heavy swell of her breasts. He could so easily graze his fingers over her warm skin and pull it open, revealing herself to him, but he refrained.  

“Keep it,” he said. “It looks better on you.” She hummed and lifted her head just so he could press his lips to hers. He’d never tire of kissing her, of the feel of her pouted, full lips. She stretched her arms behind her to comb through his own messy morning mop. 

“You have just the thickest, curliest hair,” she cooed.  

“Hmph. It becomes especially unruly when gorgeous women don’t stop running their fingers through it.” 

“Is that really so bad?” 

“I never said that,” he squeezed her lovingly. “When I woke up, I was afraid you were gone.” 

“Sorry. I’m not usually such an early riser,” she replied. “I thought I’d get up and make us breakfast, but…you don’t have any food in your fridge.” 

He winced. “I _do_ need to be better about that.” 

“I fed Griffon, though. If that's all right. He seemed hungry.” 

The dog lounged on the sofa, aloof to their conversation. “I’m sure he’d thank you if he could.” 

“Well,” she purred, “you’ll just have to stay over at my place next time. I make amazing eggs. That is,” she stilled, “if you want a next time. I know I shouldn’t assume…” 

“Neb, may I be frank?” 

That might not have been the best phrasing. Her shoulders tensed and she took a big puff of air before letting it out slowly. “Sure.” 

“You were out of my sight for thirty seconds this morning and I already missed you. If you think for one moment that I’m letting you go then prepare for a massive disappointment.” 

She barked a laugh. The way she looked up at him—all brightness and mirth—filled him with a happiness he thought he’d long lost. It was confidence; the same confidence he’d come to feel behind a guitar. It was life; the same aliveness he reveled in when the strings stung his novice fingers. It was _hope_ ; that same hope he recalled as a young man when he believed his life was changing for the better. 

“So I’m stuck with you, is what you’re saying?” she retorted. 

“For as long as you’ll have me, I’m yours.” 

She mumbled something softly to herself. It almost sounded like she said, “The cards were right all along.” 

“The what?” 

“Nothing!” she coughed. “So, if we’re going to do this, we should probably have a talk, set boundaries and expectations—get to know each other a little more.” 

Cullen, ever-the-rationalist, agreed. “I think that’s a good place to start. Would you like to discuss it over breakfast somewhere?” 

Neb huffed and he remembered her predicament. “I would, but seeing as how my dress has been decommissioned…I’d feel a little self-conscious. I mean, would you want to sit across from me in a restaurant knowing I was wearing nothing under my trench coat?” 

“…Is that a trick question?” he teased, drawing his hands lower to grip her luscious hips. The very idea of reaching under the table in some respectable downtown bistro to smooth his hand up her naked thigh appealed to him more than he thought it should. 

“Okay, I admit I walked right into that one.”  

They laughed together and he thanked the Maker for her sense of humor. It was so easy to let his guard down around her without a fear of judgment or expectation. 

“Let’s start with simple questions. What’s your full name?” 

“Nebula Lucille Emmaline Trevelyan.” 

“You have two middle names?” 

“ _And_ I’m named after space dust, yes. My parents have…eccentric taste.” 

“I wouldn’t call it eccentric,” he kissed the top of her head, catching that sweet scent in her hair again. “It’s lovely—dare I say _unique_.” 

“That’s nothing. My sister is named Embrium.” 

“I think I like Nebula better.” 

“What your middle name?” she asked. 

“Maker no,” he groaned. “It’s terrible.” 

“You know I’ll find out eventually.” 

She had him there. He muttered it between his teeth. “…Stanton.” 

“’Cullen Stanton Rutherford’—my, sounds positively _regal_.” 

“ _Please_. It’s an old family tradition. The firstborn son always gets the same middle name.” 

“Can I call you Stan?” she wiggled her eyebrows. 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Stanny?” 

“You know, I _was_ going to have the concierge deliver a new outfit for you this morning, but I think I’ve changed my mind.” 

“Wait, Cullen, I’ll be good!” she pleaded. “…Does your building really come with its own personal shopping service?” 

“Affluent dwellers,” he explained. “It even has its own in-house dry cleaner and chauffeur.” 

“Maker’s breath, how much money do you _make_?” 

He shook his head. “Too much.” 

“You don’t sound too happy with that,” she noted. 

Cullen shrugged. “Right now, I’m happy you’re here.” That sugary smell filled his nostrils again, and he had to ask: “What shampoo do you use?” 

“Oh, it’s this cheap vanilla stuff I get at the discount store. I like it because it makes my head smell like cookies.” 

“… _Shortbread_ _,_ ” he said as the realization hit him. 

“What?” 

“Vanilla shortbread. My mother used to make them.” He inhaled again. “I always loved that smell. It reminds me of coming home.” 

“Aww!” she gushed. “Is it strange to admit just how comfortable I feel around you?” 

“No. I feel the same. There’s something about you that’s just so…” _Calming. Bewitching. Mesmerizing. Engaging._ “I can’t find the right word for it. And I’m not the best at articulating to begin with.” 

“You know, I’m not the best at a lot of things either, Cullen.” 

“ _Lies_. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out you were a vessel for Andraste herself.” 

“Cullen,” she derided. “I’m not perfect. When I’m tired, I’m lazy. I can be messy. I have _terrible_ taste in television and I cry when I drink too much. Actually, I cry too much in general. At everything. Some days I talk to my cat more than I talk to another human being. My family was super religious and I have baggage from growing up in a repressed household. I can be belligerent when it comes to my political leanings, which you experienced first-hand on the day we met, but otherwise, I internalize everything. I’m so insecure that I rarely stand up for myself—especially around my mother—and _yes_ , I always have been and always will be fat.” 

He blinked. “How can you think any of that makes you less perfect?” 

“Well, I…” she trailed off and hung her head. 

“Neb, I’m sorry,” he hugged her tightly. “I’m not trying to patronize you. What I meant to say is that I admire you, in spite of all your so-called downfalls. Every day, I’m inspired by you.” 

She angled her arm so she could cup his cheek. “You’re rather inspiring, too, you know.” 

He scoffed. “Not even remotely.” 

“Cullen, _you’re_ the one who reached out to me. _You’re_ the one who took charge of your own recovery. That was all _you_. Do you know how much courage that takes, especially after what you’d been through?” 

“…You give me too much credit.” 

“None of it’s misplaced. I promise.” She said it so softly and with such sincerity he felt his eyes well with hot tears. “I want you to know that I respect you, I support you, and I want to continue supporting you.” 

“Maker’s breath,” he croaked, his throat tight. “Can we go back to simple questions again before I turn into a blubbering mess?” 

There would be time for him to discuss his needs later. For now, he wanted to be like Neb and savor the sensation of pure incandescent joy when it came to him. She placed her arms over his on her waist, offering him some comfort before she changed the subject. 

“All right, more starter questions…oh, I know! When is your birthday?” she asked. 

“Thirteenth of Justinian. And yours?” 

“Um…” she paused, wringing her hands. “This Saturday.” 

“ _This_ _Saturday?_ ” he inflated. “You give a man barely enough time to plan!” 

“I don’t need much, Cullen,” she said, relaxing against him. “Just some wine, flowers, and maybe a repeat of last night if you’re feeling so inclined.” 

“Oh, I don’t need any special incentive to do _that_ ,” he smirked. It was impossible to conceal his arousal now, not with the way her backside rested against him. He remembered a moment last night when he kneeled before her after she’d just taken off her dress; a thrilling compulsion that felt all-too-tempting to resist.  

“Although,” he continued, walking around to face her, “since your birthday is so close…”  

He kissed her gently before getting onto his knees again. His mouth found that poor scar on her beautiful soft stomach again and he hated the thought of her enduring any pain.  

“Cullen, what are you—?” she queried when he hooked her left leg over his shoulder.   

“I don’t see any harm in giving you a small preview.” He kissed her inner thigh, playfully rubbing his gruff stubble over her smooth skin until she delightfully squealed. It would be so simple to cup her behind, ease her underwear aside and jerk her toward his eager tongue. “Do you?” 

“I…” she gasped when he teased his thumb over the fabric. “I don’t see why not.” 

When she came, she cried out his name with her hands pressed against the glass.


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later.

Within three weeks, he told her he loved her. Ten months later, he asked to move in.  

Neb’s tiny apartment with the good acoustics in the bathroom, the chipped paint on the windows and the white kitchen got even tinier with the two of them, her cat and a gigantic dog. By the grace of Andraste, they somehow made it work. 

Nobody could have been more excited about it than Mia, who praised Neb for ensuring her brother took his medication regularly and ate “real food, not powder.” Growing up, her family instructed her to always be grateful to the Maker for providing her food, even if dinner consisted of mustard on day-old bread some nights. In her adult years, purchasing and preparing meals was a far more spiritual experience and Cullen appreciated her zeal. His too-trim physique filled out a bit on her cooking and his cheeks carried an undeniably healthier glow. _That_ was something she was especially grateful for. 

They expected some animosity on both animals’ parts, but Griffon and Cole took to each other right away. When one followed the other around Josephine said they were “scheming,” but even she had to admit that it was rather comical to see the dog sprawled out in the hallway where it was shady and cool topped with a fluffy little white dollop, each of them snoozing peacefully.  

It was still early when she packed up the remainder of Cullen’s belongings in his office. Neb took a final look around at the modern art decorating the walls and the aerial scene of downtown. Maker, that view—if only she could have moved into _his_ old apartment instead, but she knew the two of them could no longer afford it anyway. 

“Got everything you need, Kiddo?” Varric leaned against the doorframe. 

“Yeah, I think that’s all of it.” 

“I’ll walk you to the elevator, then.” 

Varric led her down an endless hall of open desks with interns typing away to the rhythm of the copier that, she would guess, never stopped printing. 

“How’s Bartrand doing?” she asked. 

He shrugged and shook his head, smiling all the while. “Shit, I can never get him to shut up! Starting to miss the days when my brother let me get a word in.” 

“Is it really so terrible?” Neb teased. She missed her Fridays when the two of them would sit together. 

“Did I tell you he asked if he could drive Bianca the other day? Next thing I know he’ll be trying to take over my whole enterprise.” He chuckled and pushed the button on the elevator. “And I suppose I have you to thank for that.” 

“And I would gladly do it all over again.” 

“Ah, you’re a real peach, Kiddo. I don’t know if there’s any way I can really repay you for helping me get my brother back…” 

“Well,” she said, “you _did_ set me up on a blind date last year. Let’s consider us even.” 

“Really? You’re taking _Curly_ as payment? And here I was going to have a music hall named after you instead.” 

Her stomach fluttered. “Are you serious?!” 

“Void, no! The city of Haven’s _really_ cracking down on me lately. Apparently a dwarf can’t put his hallmark on whatever he wants anymore.” The doors opened with a _ting_ and Neb put her foot in front of the sensor while she said her goodbyes. 

“I hope we’ll see each other again soon, Varric.” 

“Before you go, are you sure there’s no way to convince Curly to stay? You know, he _could_ take Bran’s old job.” 

She smiled but shook her head. “I’m sure. I think he’s finally found his lot in life.” 

 

* * *

 

Neb was right on time. It had been one year since she first strolled into that coffee shop. The autumn air carried the crisp promise of a cold winter to come. Her hair had grown past her shoulders which gave the back of her neck some added insulation. She stood below the familiar green sign with the white outline of a halla—and that confusing slogan—remembering the way her nerves bubbled up into her chest that fateful day. A musical bell rang when she pulled the door open. 

 Business was just as bustling with late-morning lattes and boisterous meetings occupying nearly every table. Neb eyed the crowd before spotting an instantly recognizable head of blonde, curly hair seated back in the corner with two mugs. He looked down, just as before, sipping on herbal tea and engrossed in another large volume of text.  

“How goes the studying?” she asked, taking a seat.  

“Hmph,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “These musicology courses are murder.” Cullen put down his copy of _The Fundamentals of Music Theory_ and pushed her mug towards her. “I hope it’s not too cold—I got you a hot chocolate.” 

“You know me so well,” she smiled, taking a sip. When he told her he’d decided to enroll in school for music therapy that fall, she beamed. “And you have the luxury of living with a certified music therapist to help you with your homework. _I_ actually had to learn all of it on my own.” 

“Must you rub your prowess in my face?” 

“I’m only doing my best to keep you humble,” Neb winked and checked the time on her cell phone—a Drakon T8, gifted by Cullen. “We still have two hours before we need to be at the airport. You got everything sorted at home?” 

“We’re all packed and Josephine hasn’t bailed out at the last minute on feeding Cole. Mia texted me this morning to inform me that Griffon is happily roaming about her property, much to the chagrin of her cat. And her chickens,” he added. “How was Varric?” 

“He wishes you luck. Now: do you remember everything?” 

He’d been quizzed time and again about her expansive family, having never met them outside of social media. They were flying up to Ostwick for the week to celebrate her parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary and the reunion was Neb’s chance to finally introduce him. The two of them worked together on composing a song they planned to perform in her family’s honor. 

“Your oldest brother Graysen’s playing with the idea of retiring early so he can begin his new venture in customized golfing equipment. Alternatively, your sister Embrium just got promoted and is expecting her third child. Both of your parents recently came back early from their vacation to Rivain because the food was too spicy and it irritated your dad’s gallbladder. Lastly, your brother Thunder will pick us up from the airport _and_ supply the instruments at the party.” 

“You got it! Are you nervous?” 

He rubbed his neck again. “A little.” 

“They’re going to _love_ you. I can’t wait for you to meet them.” 

“How, um…crowded…will this be, exactly?” 

She tucked her arms against her chest as a visual. “If you can just barely move your elbows, it means someone’s either in the bathroom or a no-show. The Trevelyans are breeders.” She sympathized with him, being thrust into such chaos when his brain needed quiet. “But we’re also pretty tame. If you’re feeling overwhelmed, just let me know. I can take you to the Chantry where I used to sing when I was in grade school. Did your counselor say anything?” 

“She just told me that I was ready.” Cullen had begun having talking sessions with someone while he transitioned from work life to student life, and Neb couldn’t have been prouder of him for taking another grand leap. 

There was no escape from the nightmares, not permanently, but Griffon would be at his side to calm him when they occurred. As he came to, Neb would hum a few bars of one of his favorite songs—on his request. She made sure that on his worst days, when song wasn’t enough, he knew he still had her support. Neb had learned to recognize his tells: when he needed to be left alone, when he didn’t want to be touched. If his emotions were particularly intense, there was also always his guitar to help solidify him. 

Cullen kept up with his morning routine. While she still slept, he and the dog would finish their run and he’d have a few hours of solitude to decompress. When she awoke, he would have already brewed a pot of tea and picked up the scattered apparel from the previous night’s lovemaking.  

Their home always resonated with music. He liked it when she practiced on the harp while he studied and on the weekends, Maryden’s voice crooned to the mousy squeak of the floorboards as Neb tried to teach him to dance with her. 

“You know,” he said, looking over the café’s décor, “I think I’m starting to like this place.” 

“I figured it would be too loud for you.” 

He smiled. “It’s a place of fond memories. Also, I happen to love the song they’re playing.” 

“Oh yeah? Show me how it’s played.” 

They grinned at each other without a care over how silly they must have looked, both of them doing the most precise air guitar they could. She loved to encourage him this way and he loved to show off his progress. 

Cullen once told her he felt more at peace now than he ever had, warm and wind-light—as if all the tension in his body was a tangible, solid thing that effervesced. Neb didn't like to brag, but he owed that to the music. It wasn’t Varric’s insisting or a runaway cat that really brought them together, but a yen for harmony. And with a new purpose, his eyes sang with optimism. 

Life went on. Whatever the future held, Neb knew the two of them would get through it together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Thus concludes my first-ever multi chapter fic! As you may have read in my bio, I'm brand new to writing fanfiction (and long-form writing in general) and Dragon Age: Inquisition was my introduction to the genre. While he wasn't the first character I romanced in DA:I, I fell in love with Cullen and strongly identified with him for a plethora of reasons. 
> 
> Links:
> 
> [Sing With Me Playlist](http://8tracks.com/valammar/sing-with-me): Assorted light rock and folk tunes I listened to while writing this piece.  
> [Neb's Record Player Playlist](http://8tracks.com/valammar/the-strongest-form-of-magic): Songs she'd adore.
> 
> Didn't read this story until after it had finished? Your comments on any chapters are still welcome, valid and appreciated!


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